


When the Mouse Stops Being a Meal

by Talc



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Blood and Gore, Dubcon Kissing, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Fighting is Flirting, Kidnapping, M/M, Psychological Torture, Slow Burn, Unethical Experimentation, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Villains, depictions of fear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-17 09:38:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13074159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talc/pseuds/Talc
Summary: Doing a simple 'favour' for Selina Kyle should not change Edward Nygma's life. Unfortunately, some variables are unpredictable no matter how far into them you look, and Jonathan Crane is one of those variables.





	1. Mouse, Meet Bird

He awakens to a dark room, lit only by a dim lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. He does not know where he is, and likewise does not know how he got here. The bed below him might as well be made of cardboard and iron, it feels like the floor, and the air in the room is heavy, and cold. He shivers.

Taking in his surroundings, he realises he’s still in his business regalia, and not tied nor shackled down. But he is here, and he remembers nothing.

“Good day, Mr. Smith.”

The voice that sounds from the nether is crisp and masculine, nothing malicious, but the sudden arrival is enough for the meek man jolt, glancing hastily around the room.

“Nice to see you’re awake. We will begin the experiment in a short while, so please stand from the bed.” The voice continues.

The instructions are nothing if not polite and genteel. Arnold Smith finds himself standing on shaking legs, his feet protesting as he rests them on the concrete floor.

“Good job.” The praise feels oddly comforting. “For today’s experiment, You will undergo a series of tests and asked to commentate on what you see, feel, and hear. Understand that there are no wrong answers, but insincere work will be-“

“W-why am I here?” The question falls out of the brave lips of one Mr. Arnold Smith, interrupting the level voice.

Said voice returns with a dark edge, and the man immediately regrets his outburst. “You may not remember, Mr. Smith, but you have volunteered to help with my research. Whether you like it or _not_ , you will cooperate.” When he doesn’t try to speak out again, the voice continues its instructions to Mr. Arnold Smith. “Where was I? Ah, yes; there are no wrong answers, but insincere work will be considered null and void, and the test will need to be performed again. The session will begin promptly. Please stand by.”

The voice cuts off, and the man is left in silence. He tenses as he hears the distinct hiss of a gas line turning on, soon finding his head light and his breath quick.

Then a new sound, that of a grate opening up, and out pour rats from an unseen hole in the wall.

Not a few rats, no, but dozens and dozens of them, swarms of rats scurrying around the floor, nipping at the man’s feet, squeaking and running over his toes. He squeaks and climbs on the bed to get away, watching the floor writhe with the scraggly bodies of rodents. They don’t climb on the bed, but they rattle and shake it, and seem to multiply, more and more and more. He closes his eyes and breaths.

And then it’s over.

“End of session one.” The voice is back, abrupt announcement once again causing the poor man to jump. “You have a rather unremarkable uneasiness to rats, Mr. Smith. Accelerated heartrate, violent auditory reaction, and hallucinations, a good start but…”

The metal door to the room creaks open, loud and grating. “I’m sorry to say that was not the desired reaction.” It’s dark behind the doorway, but the figure of a man stands, thin and tall. “We’ll have to try again, this time with a more direct approach. We will have to administer the solution intravenously.”

When the figure steps in the room, Mr. Arnold Smith cannot help but gasp.

“I’m not going to lie, Mr. Smith. _This will hurt._ ”

 

* * *

 

“I was under the impression we were going out to lunch, Selina.” This did not look like their typical uptown bistro.

The woman in question waves a delicate, gloved hand dismissively. “Oh calm down, Eddie, we’re just taking a quick detour.”

“What could you possibly need at Gotham University that cannot wait?” Edward Nygma follows after the woman as she guides him across the campus. They made quite the pair; her in her short navy dress and white sun hat, large sunglasses perched on her pointed nose, and him in his expensive slacks, freshly ironed dress shirt, and silk green tie and his blazer thrown casually over his shoulder. Two socialites on the way to an expensive lunch, certainly not visitors to a low-grade college campus.

“It concerns a personal matter, won’t take more than a minute.” Selina steps ahead of Edward, leading him towards one of the large, brick buildings.

“A personal matter? In the,” Edward glances at the signs around him, “Psychology department?” This was ridiculous. “Why could I not wait in the car until you were done with this errand?”

“What are you, a child? Please, Eddie, behave yourself. It’s just a quick matter. Look pretty and keep quiet, we’ll be out in no time.” Selina knocks on the door of one of the offices twice before pushing it open. “Oh Jon~!”

“What do you want?” The voice that responds inside is quiet and measured, but obviously annoyed. “And do you not understand the social grace of knocking? You’re _supposed_ to wait for an answer.”

“Oh, calm down, Doc. You have nothing to hide from us.”

“Yes well, the people passing in the hallway may beg to diff- wait, us?”

Edward follows Selina into the office and is almost immediately offended by the sight. The room is covered in piles of books and paper; stacks of hardcovers shoved into corners, unorganized wrecks of paper, some of which are such sitting on the filthy, stained carpet, mugs cluttered across an old, desk that can be assumed to be wooden, but is far too obscured by cardboard boxes full of, you guessed it, books, and sheets of 8x11 printer paper. It smells of stale coffee and mildew, and just the feeling of standing in the room makes Edward feel disgusting.

“Who is this, Ms. Kyle?” The man sitting behind the desk asks. It takes all his concentration not to jolt at the sight of the man. His skin is paler than pale, hair dry and mused. And his eyes; a piercing blue. He frowns deeply from beneath his thick glasses, looking at Edward as if he was filth.

“Oh, don’t mind Eddie, he’s just tagging along.” Once again Selina dismisses Edward, knowing it will make him bristle. He is not one to be ignored.

“Who is this?” The spindly man repeats, more forceful.

Selina scoffs. “Fine. Eddie, Dr. Jonathan Crane. Crane, Edward Nygma.” She introduces quickly.

“Regardless, I don’t have time for this, Ms. Kyle. I already told you what I thought of your proposal, and the fact that you’ve come here of all places only furthers the proof that I should not work with you.”

“When you ignore my calls, you lose the luxury of privacy, Jon.” Selina says.

“This is no way to get what you want, Selina.”

Selina levels her stare with Crane, grinning as she pushes a pile of papers off the desk, not even caring as the straw-haired man watches the sheets fall to the floor in a cloud of paper cuts waiting to happen.

“Was that necessary?” Is all he asks.

“Of course, Jonny dear, this is a pressing matter.” Selina perches herself neatly on the spot she cleared, sitting right in Jon’s workspace. “Now, I know you say you’re busy-“

“I am.”

“But it’s just a small favour, really. A trifle. And it’s not like I’m asking you to do this for free.” Selina leans closer to Crane in the same fashion she typically uses to charm men into her waiting hands. Of course, Jon is having none of it.

“I have no interest in your payments, Selina, you know this.”

“You really don’t want my help? Jonny, darling, I know this school isn’t giving you the grant money you need for your…work.” Selina grabs a handful fo bills form her purse and shows them to the doctor, who merely growls.

“And your understanding of how finances work completely overlooks the fact that my research funding needs to be honestly earned, now can you stop shoving your ‘payment’ into my face and leave.”

“A favour, then. A big one. Really, Jon, I need-“ Selina stops mid-sentence, distracted by a buzzing In her purse. “Hold that thought, this is more than important.” Suddenly she’s hopping off the desk and whipping out her phone. “You two play nice, I’ll be only a moment.” And then she’s gone, and Edward and the highly annoyed stranger are left alone in the filthy room.

Edward watches as Crane immediately turns back to his piles of papers and red ink, scribbling onto what Nygma presumes to be some poor college student’s horrible essay.

“Doctor, huh? Kind of overqualified for Gotham U.” He tries because small talk is not his forte, but neither is standing alone in a disgusting environment with a grumpy stranger and the lesser of two evils is a better distraction than letting himself start straightening piles of paper.

“Arkham Asylum is no longer hiring.” Crane responds, not looking up from his work.

Ah yes, the Asylum. It had been shut down seven years ago, so evidentially if a psychiatrist wanted to stay in Gotham they’d have to find work elsewhere, either by going private or turning to something else. Crane must have chosen the latter.

Edward fidgets with his cufflinks, straightening out his shirt for no reason other than to give his hands something to do. He opens his mouth to speak again, but is cut off.

“You’re uncomfortable.” Crane says, still not looking up from his work.

“I’m fine.” Edward argues, dropping his hands to his sides.

“No, you’re not. This room is too disorganized for your eyes, you want to fix it, but you can’t because it’s not your room. You try to distract yourself by making me talk to you because you want my attention, not because I interest you but because Ms. Kyle is no longer around to speak to you and you refuse to be ignored.” Crane refuses to look up from whatever he is scribbling on in his illegible handwriting, and Edward refuses to admit how infuriating that is.

“Don’t psychoanalyse me.”

“I’ll do what I like.”

Edward bristles, eye twitching as Crane smirks in satisfaction. “I don’t need to listen to a hack shrink tell me what is wrong with my own thoughts, my intellect is large enough to know my own faults.”

“Like your own egomania?” Crane counters, not seeming to be bothered by Edward’s insult.

“I do not see my own genius as a psychosis.”

“Which is what makes your narcissism so unique. You are aware of it, yet choose to believe you are smart enough to suppress your own ego. But you need to feel noticed, don’t you, Nygma? You crave it? You fear not just isolation, but to be pushed into the shadows.” Crane finally looks up from his papers and turns his sharp eyes onto Edward. In the dim light, they shine mockingly. “It’s not just order you seek, Nygma, but complete and utter control. A world where everyone sees you, everyone recognises your genius.” Now the man is standing, showing how impressively tall he is compared to Edward, all sinewy muscles and long limbs.

“As much contempt as you show for me, the fact that I am dissecting you at all fills you with anticipation.” Crane is standing closer and Edward finds it hard to remember when he stepped so close. The dark, filthy room and the quiet, rasping voice bounce around in his head, so much to concentrate on, it’s almost too much. “But the truth is; one day you will die, Edward, and no one will remember who you were, or what you did, or even that you ever existed.”

The voice is right in his ear now, spreading warm breath over Edward’s neck and it is revolting, to think such a man would stand so close to him. Yet, a shiver runs up his spine, his skin pricked with horripilation as his hairs stand on end.

Crane chuckles and the heat recedes, letting Edward breath again. “You were scared.” He finishes, taking his seat, and Nygma finds himself avoiding the gaze of those striking eyes.

“I was not.” He denies, almost childish in his tone.

“You can’t lie to me about fear, Nygma. It is my expertise. I’ve studied it in length for many years. There is no one who understands fear more than I.” Crane has abandoned his work to toy with Edward, watching him beneath those entirely too thick frames of glass.

“Your concentration is in anxiety?” Edward laughs mirthlessly. “What a ridiculous study. I doubt even a low-grade school like Gotham University would deem it worthwhile for funding.”

“They don’t.” Crane’s voice rumbles with the distant growl of anger. Edward smirks, seeing he’s struck a nerve.

“Good for them.” He grins smugly. “Not that it really matters, higher education is a scam.”

“Is it safe to assume you did not attend university?”

Nygma scoffs. “University is a waste of time and a waste of money.

“What, were your parents not willing to shell out the meagre dollars to trust fund your way through college?” Crane snorts.

Nygma laughs. Cold, and unforgiving, he laughs loudly, almost obnoxiously.

When he stops, it’s abrupt. His glare is daggers and fire as he looks at Crane, staring until the man looks back into his eyes and sees the burning. “Don’t you ever fucking talk about my parents. Ever.” He says, and there’s no false geniality this time.

Crane can’t even bring himself to glare. He’s simply too stunned to speak. This was not the desired reaction. Sure, he was expecting to piss off Nygma with his poking and prodding, but this is not simple anger. This is icy cold fury.

“Is it safe to assume you don’t get along with your parents?” Crane tries. He feels like he must know more…

“What did I just fucking say, you spindly limbed ingrate!” Edward hisses. There’s nothing amusing about this reaction. Nothing at all.

Crane simply glares, and it is that facial exchange that marks Selina Kyle’s return, gliding into the room without even a simple knock.

“Sorry about that.” She says, stowing away her phone in her purse. “The situation has become more urgent. Jonathan, please.” Selina Kyle does not beg, so her sad eyes are a rarity Edward has never really seen.

Crane sighs, dropping his deadly glare which had still be trained on Nygma. “I’ll contact you later about the details of your payment, and when my schedule is open to perform this ‘favour’.”

Selina grins, a cat that just got the cream. “Thank you so much, Jon.”

“Don’t mention it.” Crane practically growls. “I do not need others coming here for help.” He shoots a pointed look at Edward, who shrugs. He wasn’t planning to ever see Crane again, let alone ask him for a favour.

“Understandable. Eddie, darling, go start the car.” Selina tosses her keys to Edward, watching as he glares at her, hand whipping up to catch the handful of metal.

“It’s my car Selina, where did you even get my keys?”

“Don’t bother, Ed. I’ll be out in a moment.” Selina dismisses him, obviously finding amusement in the sneer she receives. Regardless, Edward takes the hint and leaves Selina alone with Crane, all too happy to get out of that awful room and away from those piercing eyes.

“Your friend is very…” Jonathan starts, but is cut off by Selina shoving her finger in his face threateningly.

“I swear to hell Crane, stay away from Eddie.” She hisses.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean, Ms. Kyle.” Crane deadpans.

“If Edward Nygma goes missing in the next few days, Crane, me interrupting your work will be the least of your worries, I can promise you that.” Selina Kyle jabs her perfectly manicured finger into Crane’s chest, levelling his glare in return. “Don’t test me, Crane.”

“And do not test me, Ms. Kyle. You knew what you were doing when you brought your friend with you. If he becomes a target, it is your fault not mine.” Crane turns back to his papers, a silent dismiss to Selina.

Of course, she does not back down at the simple gesture, jabbing her hand forward to grab the man’s collared shirt and shove her glaring eyes right in front of his.

“Eddie is _not_ a test subject, Jon.” She hisses.

Crane doesn’t even flinch, just glares back steadily. “ _Would you rather take his place?”_

Selina hisses again before dropping Crane and turning on heel, strutting out of the office as she whacks over more piles of appears on her way out.

Edward is leaning on the wall outside the building when she gets out.

“There’s a strange veiled woman sitting in my car, Selina.” He begins upon seeing her. “Wouldn’t happen to know why, would you?”

Selina calms her residual anger, smiling at Edward as she regains her nonchalant composure. “Oh, that must be Pam. She was the one who called me in there. Come darling, she’s joining us for lunch.”

Edward glares at her smirk, but follows her to the car, and faces his doom.


	2. The Mouse and the Viper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By 'we're going to get lunch', Selina apparently means 'we'll probably get kicked out of the restaurant', so really Edward's afternoon is ruined.

Pamela Isley is infamous for her accident that caused her to become Poison Ivy. Unfortunately for her, her villainy, like many, could never be anonymous. He supposes that’s the reason that really separates rogues like Selina and him from those like Harvey Dent and Isley; they don’t really get a mask. Therefore, there’s no reason for Edward not to know of her by name, but behind her thick mourning veil and her dark clothes, she is unrecognisable.

Selina greets her with a hug and a kiss on both cheeks, and practically pushes Ed out of the way to allow Pam to take the shot gun seat of _his_ car. Rude.

Exiled to the back seat, Eddie thinks over his exchange with Jonathan Crane. It would be simple to ruin that man’s life. Get him fired from the university… Take his identity and burn it. …Steal his accounts…Granted, he’s not worth it. He really isn’t.

Selina seems to know his thoughts, though, because she pipes in from the driver’s seat, “Keep away from him, Eddie.” For someone so playful, her serious voice is daunting as hell.

“I wasn’t planning to interact with that stick figure ever again, if I could help it.” Nygma responds, waving a hand dismissively. “We better be actually attending lunch now, Ms. Kyle.”

“Of course, Eddie.” She smiles, all teeth and no eyes. Edward resists responding with something puerile and sarcastic.

Selina drives like she’s trying to outdo the other cars around her, which isn’t exactly something Eddie wants her to be doing in _his_ car, but it’s not like he’s capable of stopping her at this point. They do eventually arrive at the restaurant without being pulled over. Considering he doesn’t want his car on any lists, this is a blessing.  

Selina and Pamela walk shoulder to shoulder, leaving Edward to trail behind like a scorned husband. He knows he’ll be paying for lunch, so the sentiment is rather cold on him.

Selina is doing all the talking. She chatters off about her day, and her yesterday; where she got her shoes, what material her dress is, what idiot she stole her necklace from. Pamela doesn’t say a word until they sit down at their lunch table, and even then, it is just to order a glass of water. Her voice is quiet, and leads the world to think she’s shy. Edward knows better.

“Why are you here, Doctor?” Nygmas asks, sipping his glass of wine. He’s not fond of drinking for drunk sake, but today feels like a glass draining sort of day. He’s bitter, anyways, after the conversation with Dr Crane.

Isley ignores Edward in favour of staring at Selina.

“Pam…” Selina sighs.

“Why is he here? In what world would dragging some random man into this situation actually assist us?” Pam continues to speak in a soft, whisper of a voice. Still, her anger is nothing but evident.

“Eddie is the smartest idiot in Gotham.” Well that’s rude. “He knows better than to screw with you, and furthermore he has more than one reason to actually help us.” Selina does not even try to mask her anger or lower her voice.

Dr. Isley glares across the table. “And what would that be?” She hisses, digging her perfectly manicured nails into the tablecloth.

“I am sitting right here.” Edward announces nonchalantly, eyes focused on his glass of wine, which he swirls around slowly, watching the bright liquid spiral around the glass stem. “You are aware of this, yes?”

“Shut up!” Both Pam and Selina both spit at the same time. Edward does his best not to flinch at the venomous looks being sent his way. And the actual venom.

“Doctor, your Ivy is showing.” Edward points out, as thorns start to tent Dr. Isley’s sleeves.

She growls and shoves her arms beneath the table, face flushing emerald green. “This is ridiculous. Do you even care, Selina?”

“Of course I care! I may not be in love with the girl, but I can still love her!”

“How dare yo-“

“What will you be ordering today?” The waitress is a professional, Gotham-born girl who knows better than to ask questions. The skill with which she defuses a fight in the works is rather impressive. The most opportune time to take their order, of course.

“Yes, I will have today’s special with a side salad. Light on the dressing, no tomatoes. If I find a single rotten leaf in my salad I will kill you.” Edward says simply, handing the waitress his menu. “That’s a joke, of course. I _will_ kill the chef, though. Oh, and another bottle of wine. This one will be empty soon.”

The waitress, for her own credit, doesn’t seem bothered by the order at all, just turns to Selina. “And you, miss?”

“Catch of the day.” She makes a point of glaring at Edward as she too hands over her menu.

The waitress turns to Pamela, who is still brooding/

“And what can I get for you, miss?” The waitress asks her.

“Another glass of water, please.” She says in her faux-soft voice. She lets the waitress take the menu, keeping her hands under the table.

“Now,” Edward begins as the waitress leaves. “Who wants to tell me what’s going on?”

* * *

 

They end up taking lunch to go, much to Edward’s chagrin. Halfway through Selina’s explanation Pamela stops her and insists that there are too many prying ears around. So, they continue in the car, which Selina is not driving towards Edward’s apartment. Well, if she is she’s very lost.

“So let me get this straight; you dragged me all the way to Gotham University to get your friend an appointment with a psychiatrist?” Edward asks from his prison in the back seat.

“She refuses to speak to a practicing one, but she used to be Jonny’s student. I needed to find someone she would trust.” Selina explains, driving one handed. “And I did not drag you there Edward; his office hours just coincided with our lunch plans.”

“Why didn’t Crane want to help you in the first place?” Edward asks.

“He’s a dick.” Pam states.

“Pam, you’ve hardly met the guy.” Selina argues.

“I know far more about Jonathan Crane than you think.” Pamela removes her veil to reveal her chlorophyll tinted skin. She’s beautiful of course, but more in the way a flame is beautiful. Something behind her bright red lips and carefully lined eyes is burning, and though the light is tantalizing, like a moth to a flame she is an end, not a beginning.

“Fair enough.” Selina shrugs. “Pam’s right, though, Jon is a dick. His reluctance has more to do with his misanthropic nature than his penis-likeness, though.”

“Why again does this friend of yours need therapy in the first place?” Edward asks, trying not to find amusement in the childish insult. “Therapy that cannot be provided by a say, a normal doctor, that is.”

“I told you, she’s been acting weird. Disappearing for days on end, showing up with new wounds every morning, slamming herself against walls, then suddenly shutting herself up and not talking to us for a week.” Selina takes a sharp left, almost colliding with a passing bicycle.

“Last night she appeared at my door covered in rope burn and sobbing. When I asked her what happened, she said it was homework… I’m…I’m very worried about her.” Pamela admits in a very, very quiet voice.

Selina slams on the brake instead of coming to a slow stop. “I need to make a quick stop.”

“At least park first.” Edward wants to keep his car, not lose it to the government.”

“You’ll still be in the car, it’s fine.”

“That’s not how cars work, Selina!”

“Ugh, fine.” She cannot, for the life of her, parallel park, but she tries as both Edward _and_ Pamela look on with a sort of distant horror. It’s a screeching, terrible mess that somehow gets the car half on the curb and slightly diagonal in the end.

“You are paying for this car if you so much as scratch it, Selina!” Eddie hisses, clutching to the back of the driver’s seat like a lifeline.

Selina waves a hand dismissively then promptly rams the front of Ed’s care\ into the back of the one in front of her. “Whoops.” She grins a kitty cat grin, looking back at Edward with a gleam in her eyes.

“I hate you.”

* * *

 

It’d been half an hour since Selina had told them to wait in the car. Half an agonising hour of Edward and Pamela pretending one another did not exist. Of course, ten minutes into this endeavour Edward let himself slip into his mind.

He’s running through some plant themed riddles that it takes all his self-control to not blurt out when he’s suddenly hit with the sweetest of smells.

The air feels thick in his nasal passages, in his throat, in his lungs. It’s like breathing through molasses up until he hears it.

“Eddie, dear, are you paying attention?” That voice. _Her voice._ Who is she, what does she want? Why does she make his head feel light? “Come on Eddie, you’re a clever man, you can do it. Just _breath._ ”

He breathes. A long inhale is all he needs for his head to clear enough for his brain to turn his eyes on. He hums in the back of his throat, as if wishing to turn his vocal cords on like a slow starting boat motor. “Hmmm…What?”

“I asked how you’re feeling.” There she is, sitting only a few inches away. Beautiful! Iridescent! Perfection!

“Hmmm mmm….Good, good. Head’s very erm…Fuzzy. Never been like that before…” His head feels very quiet for once, like the thoughts and theories that fill it have been filtered out and replaced only with thoughts of _her._

She smiles and it spreads warmth through his body, like a furnace in his spine. “Well, that’s a good sign.” Is it? It must be, if she says so. “Now, Eddie, do me a favour.” Anything for her. “Kiss me.” She breaths, and the air rushes from his lungs. Yes, kiss her. Do it, it’s all you’ve ever wanted.

His mind is waxing poetic as he slowly unclenched his hands from the seat in front of him.

_The perfection of a rose; bright and immaculate. A beauty with its own arsenal. Try to pluck her and she plucks you back._

He leans closer to _her_ , aching to take her in his arms.

_Consume me, drink my skin. Let me be the water that nurtures your roots. Let me be the sun that warms your leaves. Let me be the body that rots in the soil to feed you. Consume me._

“Kiss me.” She repeats, her presence a thick smoke that wraps around him. Consume me.

_A kill for the cowards; a drink with a bite, the invisible murder that tastes like the night._

“Eddie?” Did she say something again? A kill for the cowards…His mind is spinning, his head in a whirl. It’s hard to breath again.

“Eddie, you need to breath.” What was she saying? A drink with a bite, an invisible murder? Why was she saying that? Her lips are red. Red like fire. Red like blood.

Blood….Blood…Murder…

“Poison.” The word falls out of his mouth without his control. He doesn’t really know how it got there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to write riddler without riddles, but I've read so many fics by now that I'm sick of reading the same ones, so I decided to write my own for this fic and...It sucks. 
> 
> I have this issue where I've written all of chapter four but not written any of chapter three so...Whoops. Tbh I'm kind of new to this dark gritty stuff, so bear with me. Also I'm playing fast a loose with a variety of lore, no regrets.


	3. A Meal is Caught

“Thank you for your cooperation. Today we can proceed with session three.” The nameless voice wakes Mr. Arnold Smith from his slumber. The room has not changed much in the past few days. It is still dark, damp, unnerving. The man keeps his eyes, bloodshot and worn, aimed at the ceiling. He doesn’t really remember the last ‘session’, not much at least, but by no means is this a comfort. Whatever horrors he had witnessed, he wanted to know.

The ceiling is cracked. He can’t remember if it’s always been like that. He can’t sit up, but he doesn’t try very hard. There’s hardly any energy left in him.

Only moments later, the door scrapes open and the heavy footsteps of the man’s captor sound across the concrete floor.

“Good day, Mr. Smith. Session three will begin shortly.” His voice, so clear, so polite. A mask, the man knows by now. A terrible, terrible disguise for a horrifying creature. “Since you no longer have use of your legs, the experiment has been adjusted for your newfound disability.”

What? Mr. Arnold Smith can physically feel his heart hammer against his ribs as all his nerves and veins freeze up in chilly terror.

“W-what happened to…To my legs?” He whispers, voice weak and raw.

“Unfortunately, intravenous injection of the experiment was too strong for your neural system.” He watches as the man, no, creature, places a gloved hand on his leg and, of course, he can no longer feel it. No no no…“The spinal cord damage was permanent. I’ve adjusted the formula, but your test results would be inconclusive as your weak mind has skewed any possible results.”

There’s something undeniably bitter tinging the creature’s voice. It would send shivers up Mr. Arnold Smith’s spine, were it still operational.

“Since you have ruined my results, we’re going to have to use you as materials.” The chilling sentence should never be spoken so casually. “I do hope your fear of needles and knives does not get in the way of the experiment.” No. No no no no no- “Oh, and you won’t be needing your thyroid any more, will you, sir?”

* * *

 

Edward’s mind has always felt like a trap. Not in the sense that he didn’t want to be in it, but in the sense that he could never escape it.

When he was younger, he often fell into his own thoughts for long periods of time, none able to wake him until he had finished what he was thinking of, or until extreme measures were taken.

Perhaps this is why he is used to be slapped awake.

“Eddie! Eddie wake up!” A sharp sting to one cheek. “Eddie I swear to god, wake up!” The other cheek, this time harder. “EDDIE!” A third slap.

“Ow!” Ok, that one hurt.

“Thank fuck, you’re awake.” Well, that was certainly Selina’s voice.

“How long was I out?” Edward asks as he slowly opens his eyes, lifting a hand to his throbbing cheek. That might bruise…He’ll need ice soon, then.

“Not long. At least, not long after I got back. What the hell, Ed?” Selina is crossing her arms and she looks disappointed.

“That’s a very good thing to ask your friend.” Edward mutters. “Poisoning she-devil…”

“What?” Selina narrows her eyes before turning her head to look at someone behind her. “Pam…Please tell me you didn’t?”

“She did.” Edward pipes in, but Selina shoots him a ‘shut up’ glare.

“I can’t control the fact that he’s not immune to my toxins.” Pamela responds from the front seat. Now that his head is clear, he can make out her form. Her skin looks a hell of a lot brighter now.

“No wonder he was trying to kiss you… Pam, you can’t just do that to someone!” Selina has pulled a tissue from somewhere and is wiping Eddie’s nose, which is he now notices was bleeding.

“It didn’t even work, really.” Pam waves her hand dismissively, not seeming bothered by the looks Selina is shooting her.

“It’s not like he’s a threat, Pam!”

“You can’t possibly know that!” Pamela spits her words like they’re vile.  “It was a test!”

“You could have at least told me, Pam!”

“Can we not shoot me up with toxins? Being poisoned is not on my bucket list.” Edward let’s his eyes fall closed for a moment, only to get lightly slapped again.

“Stay awake!” Selina scolds him sharply.

“I was just resting my eyes for a second.” His eyes were feeling quite weak, if he was being honest. It was like the light was trying to crawl into his skull.

Selina punches him on the shoulder before clambering off his lap. The fact that she was sitting on him in the first place is enough of an indicator of how worried she is. Selina Kyle would not ruin her good dress for just anybody. It would be wrinkled now.

Nice to know she cares.

Edward slowly pulls himself up from his slumped position

“Selina, you better be driving to my home now.” He shouts to his friend as she climbs into the driver’s seat.

“You’ve been through enough today.” She shrugs before hitting the gas and screeching out of her parking space. Thankfully, it seems the car they hit has left, otherwise it would probably lose a fender to her reckless driving.

Edward isn’t expecting an apology form Pam, but at least he hopes she’ll leave him alone for a bit after this. However, after meeting Dr. Crane today he had reached his quota for horrible Selina acquaintances for the week. Since he had to leave Crane alone, someone else would have to pay.

Selina drops him off, making him get out of the car whilst it is technically still in motion, before announcing that she’s going to bring Pamela home, then borrow his car for a date, and maybe return it later. She speeds off before he can really protest, and a part of him feels like he may never see his car again.

Left alone in his apartment, Edward pours himself a stiff drink and collapses onto his couch, being careful to strip himself of his nice clothing first. It’s been an unfairly long day, with a cast of characters he does not want to ever meet again.

Tomorrow he will wake up and start his next elaborate trap scheme, but tonight he will lie down on the couch, stare at the ceiling, and wish he never met Pamela Isley or Jonathan Crane. 

* * *

 

Eddie doesn’t hear from Selina for about a week, perhaps because she thinks he deserves a break, or maybe because she’s on the run from the Bat after breaking into a local museum to steal from their new Bastet collection. Still, Saturday night she calls him up and asks him for a favour. Because he’s sick of driving her everywhere, he agrees.

Her car had been at the mechanics for more than a month now. Running it wild down Gotham highway had not been the best idea, but Selina driving in the first place was a bad plan. She’d almost crashed it into the harbour, saved only by a carefully placed van that had belonged to Penguin. To be honest, if Cobblepot hadn’t owed her a favour, she’d be without a car, and in Black Gate.

The problem was, Selina was currently under lock down in downtown Gotham. Someone had gone missing in the area, some lawyer or something, and the GPD was crawling around for clues. The last thing she needed was to be seen in that mess, and showing up with a falsely licenced car still riddled with bullet holes would just draw attention. So, she told Eddie to go and pick it up from the shop and take it to a mob-owned garage she set up a spot for.

No one needed to know it was Catwoman’s day car, and no one needed to know it was the Riddler dropping it off.

If Eddie was driving a car somewhere, though, he couldn’t really take his own, so he was walking; cane in hand (oak with a smooth polish, but otherwise unremarkable), dressed down by his own standards, but still dressed to the nines under most opinions. He took his time walking through slick back alleyways, and backroads, keeping his head down and his nose out of other people’s business, like a typical human being. Inside, he aches to show them all his true worth, but Selina will kill him if he doesn’t take care of her car.

He's still a few blocks away from the garage when he notices it; he’s being followed.

His pursuer is not exactly being subtle, but maybe that’s the point. Maybe they’re waiting some ten feet away kicking cans and throw stones just to make that small noise, maybe to invoke paranoia. Edward had seen muggers do this a few times before, using audio misdirection when tailing their prey, but he wasn’t about to take the bait. Edward Nygma is not common drabble. He’s by no means stupid and will not show fear; he keeps walking, letting his cane clip against the concrete, leaning on it a bit more than normal if only to make it seem like he needed it more than reality.

The sounds follow once in a while; the quiet flap of a bird’s wings, a screeching cat, rocks hitting the ground, and scrapes and scruffles. Rustles in the wind are everywhere, but Edward turns a blind eye to them, doesn’t even look over his shoulder.

The sounds stop when he least expects it, of course, and he walks in silence. A part of him hopes his pursuer has given up, but that part is naïve and foolish. The shadow is still on his heels, and will not stop until it succeeds with its mission.

The noise starts up again about a block away from the garage. This time, it’s a gritty, scraping sound, like metal being dragged on the ground, squealing and screaming to the night. Unlike the pebble tossing, this was new; an intimidation technique Edward was unfamiliar with, at least in this sort of situation.

He can feel his shadow’s eyes, though, not just from behind him. Maybe the paranoia _is_ kicking in. Eyes from left, right, up, below; watching, waiting. In the dark, they follow him as he forces his muscles not to turn. Do not look over your shoulder, do not do it.

He turns a corner and a soft shuffle sounds behind him, like two feet hitting the ground. So finally he turns, clicking the switch on his cane that hides his concealed knife and swinging.

Nothing is there.

He pauses.

…

A sharp prick at his neck, and ice is sliding through his veins. Then darkness. 


	4. He Toys With his Meals

There’s something oddly familiar about waking up in a dark room with a stiffness in his joints, and a dull pain in the back of his head that he’d rather not dwell on, nor remember in any way, shape, or form.

Edward knows better than to move immediately after waking. He stays where he is and uses his body’s sense of proprioception to figure out his state. 

He is lying, spread eagle, on a hard surface. There’s nothing restraining him that he can feel, nor any sort of weight, but that’s not exactly a good sign. He’s cold, but not undressed, still in his dress shirt and pants. Where ever he is, it smells sharp, pungent.

He thinks back to his last memories. Selina, the alleyway, the stalker…Yes, this seemed to be the proper situation to a Gotham Saturday night. Granted, normally when Ed wakes up in odd situations it’s a Riddler thing, not an ‘Edward Nygma was trying to run an errand’ thing. Was this personal? Who did he tick off recently? Well, other than Pamela, but he was sure him helping Selina and her out was enough payment for whatever he did that made her hate him. Not to mention this wasn’t really Poison Ivy’s MO…

Who else? Cobblepot and him were on good terms these days. He’d built a new computer for the guy, not to mention kept out of his club… Harvey was always a contender, but since when was he subtle? Who else… Not really anyone…Oh, there was that professor guy Selina went to visit.

Oh shit, it better not be him. Edward will fucking kill Selina if she introduced him to a rogue without telling him. That’s like dangling a sign above his head that marked him for death.

The lights turn on abruptly, shining spots in Nygma’s eyes. He instinctively closes them, feigning sleep.

“You’re finally awake, Mr. Nygma.” A low voice says from above, clear, and crisp. An intercom, perhaps, of exceedingly shoddy quality. The crackles alone tear at Ed’s sensitive ears quite painfully.

Seeing that playing dead won’t work, he let’s eyes open. They don’t quite need much adjusting to the low light of the room; small, concrete, and cold, lit only by a lightbulb attached to the ceiling. Edward is lying on what appears to be a bed, though stripped of its mattress.

“Apologies for the low standards of the room. The last test subject was rather…finicky.” The voice undeniably belongs to Dr. Crane. It has the subtle hint of an accent, and the rough bite of an intellectual. Still, his snarky attitude has no quite appeared yet, giving him a polite air Edward assumes he is often missing.

“Yes well, not all of us can afford more than one mattress…” Edward quips, slowly sitting up, and silently cursing the very existence of Selina Kyle. “Or a mop for that matter.” He adds, catching sight of the blood stains on the floor. What had happened before he arrived here, though not clear on the details, was evidentially violent.

“Your entitlement is to be the fall of you, Nygma.” Jonathan bites, letting his own personality leak out of his professional doctor tone. “Ahem…The experiment will begin momentarily. Please stand by.”

That’s it? No explanation? No monologue waxing poetic about how Ed had pissed him off? Who was this guy?! Certainly not part of Gotham’s typically rogue set, who always seemed to be a touch more dramatic than they had the right to be (Edward himself knew he was dramatic, but in his defence, he makes it look good, not desperate).

Edward glances around the room again. There’s a door, but it’s solid metal. Edward likes to believe himself to be of a healthy physical condition, but he has never been strong…In any sense of the word.

Still, he’s hoping to get this over with quickly. He doubts he will live to tell his tale unless he finds a way out. But Edward has yet to figure out who Jonathan really is, and what this ‘experiment’ is truly about.

He traces back all the knowledge he had of the spindly man he had met only a few days ago. Psychiatrist, moody, reclusive. Professor, but not for long. Specialises in fear- Now there’s somethi-

A hiss breaks out into the room, low but audible. Edward stills his thoughts. He had really had enough of people shoving poison and toxins into him after his little tryst with Ivy, not that he had really lost that battle. Then the room’s temperature seems to drop as Edward’s mind starts running ten miles an hour. He’s already thought of a dozen and a half ways to make an impromptu gas mask, but if he’s being honest with himself he knows none of them fit this situation. What does he have to work with? Let’s see:

A bedframe. A suit jacket. A shirt, a pair of silk gloves, his expensive shoes… Oh if only he had time!

He holds his breath as he tugs off one of his shoes. They’re leather, real leather with custom dye and design. Expensive, unique, and about to be destroyed. Using the sharp sides of the metal bed frame, Edward starts to rip up his coat lining and jury-rig a gas mask. He can’t possibly work fast enough, though. Eventually he’ll have to breath.

His heart is pumping at twice its resting rate. The room is freezing, and he’s working off pure adrenaline now. But his head is light already. He’ll have to breath soon.

His eyes water as the gas starts to accumulate. There’s a creeping feeling jabbing into his spine, like a thousand eyes are watching him. His hands are shaking something fierce as he tries to keep working. Then his body follows with it, his muscles practically vibrating in his skin. He can see the eyes now. No, not eyes; spots. Black spots in his vision, popping in and out, blurry spectres blocking his view. How long had it been now, how had he not breathed?

Still, he keeps his breath held as the darkness closes in, and the last thing he hears is “End of session one.”

* * *

 

 _What grips you tight without a hand,_  
Creeps up on you, no feet to stand,  
Brings the strongest to their knees,  
Chills your bones without the freeze?

* * *

 

“Begin session two.” Dr. Crane’s voice swims through the fog in Edward’s mind, past the fishbowl that was housing his current riddle.

 _What grips you tight without a hand, creeps behind with no feet to stand? What brings the strongest to their knees? What chills your bones without the freeze?_ It kept running like a mantra through Edward’s head. Where did it even come from?

 _What grips you tight without a hand?_ Edward is in the same room as before, lying on the floor.

 _Creeps behind with no feet to stand?_ Someone has redressed him in his shoes, tied them carefully, buttoned up his shirt.

 _What brings the strongest to their knees?_ The room is the same, though silent now, save for his laboured breaths. It’s as if he awoke in the moments after he had passed out, as if it had never really happened at all, but he knows better.

 _What chills the bone without the freeze?_ His heartrate is still racing wild. He can feel his pulse flail in his body. He wants to run. Run out the door and-

The door! The door is wide open. It’s a trap, of course. Whether he is supposed to leave to follow the experiment, he does not know. But the door is a trap, he cannot leave. He will not fall to the childish whims of the…The…Oh, it’s right there behind the fog. How long had he been knocked out.

 _What chills the bone without the freeze?_ The room is no longer cold. Actually, it’s getting warmer. Steadily increasing, much too fast for it to simply the door’s fault.

 _What brings the strongest to their knees?_ A thick, familiar smell replaces the acrid stench of blood and suddenly it’s all too clear. Smoke.

 _What creeps behind without feet to stand?_ Edward’s feet are on the floor in a second as he turns around and sees the flames start to pour from the vent in the wall.

 _What grips you tight without a hand?_ How is this even possible? It isn’t, of course it isn’t, it must be a hallucination. Edward’s senses are telling him otherwise. He can feel the heat of the flames, smell the smoke, see the light.

Despite knowing it can’t be, his body is responding as if the fire was already licking at his heels. He will not be burned. He runs.

What is it? The riddle, the riddle that keeps playing…It’s so simple, so easy, even a child could figure it out. But his head is so foggy, almost as if he’s drugged.

Drugged…The gas! He would have inhaled it after passing out. What was in that gas? It doesn’t matter, of course, he can feel the flamesont he back of his calves. He runs.

The hallways of the building look far too familiar for his taste. Stained, tacky wallpaper. Hardwood floors that creak and splinter beneath his steps. The smell of cigarettes and cheap booze. It’s all far too familiar.

“Eddie.”

Far too familiar.

“You cheated!”

Like a dream.

“You cheatin’ little bastard!”

Like a nightmare.

“Ed you get right back here!”

Edward Nygma runs like the devil is on his tail. He is, he must be. That voice is the devil’s, this must be his hell, for that voice has been long dead. He had made sure of it, made sure he’d never have to hear it again.

All at once, he’s a child again, trying to find a place to hide in his small shack of a home. There was never really anywhere to hide, though. He’d always be found, eventually. Still, the futile task had never ended. He always ran, right until he left. Now he’s running again, sprinting down this neverending hallway. Edward Nygma is afraid. Terrified. It feels like talons are digging into his calves, like the pounding footsteps behind him are not only gaining, but are sounding in his ears like the drums of war. Feels like ice seeping into his veins. Yes, for the first time in years, Edward Nygma is afraid of his father. Fears him.

Fear.

What grips you tight without a hand, creeps behind with no feet to stand? What brings the strongest to their knees? What chills your bones without the freeze?

Fear!

There it was, that riddle! But if fear was the answer then…

“Found you, ya’ little bastard!” The rough voice of his rather is right behind him. He must have stopped to think. Oh stupid, stupid Eddie, and your stupid, stupid brain. He wants to hit himself for his idiocy, but he’s sure his dad will do it for him.

Except his dad is dead. Has been dead for years. How can he be here? Hoe can the man he fears most- Wait…Fear, that must mean something, shouldn’t it?

As he whirls around he remembers, remembers what he was thinking of before the gas was released. He solves it, and feels that rush of satisfaction run up his spine, a surging warmth with a rush of dopamine. He solved it, proven right then as he sets his eyes on his pursuer. Not his father, but, of course! Jonathan Crane; The Scarecrow.

“Is this end of session two, Jonny?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk how to draw out running scenes so frankly he ran for a good long while and i wasnt going to write all of it


	5. Chew Off a Tail to Escape the Trap

Gone is his ratty sweater and jeans, gone his glasses and rats nest hair; Jonathan Crane stands before Edward dressed head to toe in full horror show regalia. It’s unthinkable that he’s actually stupid enough to just wear burlap, but the outward effect is burlap and hay; tattered and patched, blood soaked at the calves and water stained on the sleeves. Across his hips and chest are belts full of syringes and chemical phials of a viscous, orange fluid. This ensemble is only completed by the heinous, b-movie’s wet dream of a mask, which alone makes Edward want to gag

The Scarecrow’s mask seems to be a combination gas-mask-costume shop terror. The mouth is a hastily stitched mess that resembles maggot-ridden, rotten teeth, the eye holes are simply that; jagged void holes in the mask, where Crane’s piercing blue peepers peer out, narrowed, and dangerous.

“ _Shut up_.” He hisses, the mouth of his mask not moving with the words. This certainly does not sound like Jonathan Crane. _The Scarecrow_ has the sort of voice that comes from permanent damaged to the vocal cords, the result of smoking a pack a day for ten years, or perhaps getting one’s larynx permanently injured. Jonathan Crane sounds like an impatient high school principal who hasn’t slept since his first day on the job.  

“Is this how you react to criticism, Doctor? Kidnap those who annoy you and experiment on them?” Edward’s tries to only use his peripheral to look for an exit, keeping his primary site on the Scarecrow. “It’s puerile, really. Retaliation like this is nothing bu-“

“ _I said shut up_!” Scarecrow hardly raises his voice, but even the small volume raise has Edward jolt. His jaw snaps shut audibly, and he curses himself for showing a sliver of weakness. He’d spent years trying to recover from his issues with shouting men, but that doesn’t seem to matter right now as his body still runs adrenaline through his nerves like liquid gasoline, feeding the fire in his body.

The Scarecrow starts his forward stalk, feet oddly silent across what Edward thought to be a creaky hardwood floor. Yet, as he feels his hand brush against the wall, he realises that too was a hallucination. The walls are concrete, as is the floor, not wallpaper and wood. The atmosphere itself had been an illusion. How that had been brought about, Edward can only assume alien, even meta human powers, like those he’s seen in people like Isley or that dolt in Metropolis.

Nothing makes sense, and that itself stings. Edward Nygma hates not knowing.

 _“Now, Mr. Nygma, be a good boy and come here.”_ The scratching voice is condescending and patronising as Scarecrow reaches out a gloved hand to him. Something inside Edward’s body flinches and tells him to listen, if only to escape the punishment that disobeying will distributes. But, another portion of his brain, the logical part, the strong part, keeps repeating the answer to that infernal riddle; fear, fear, fear, fear.

Of course; Jonathan Crane specialises in anxiety. Somehow, he’s projecting Edward’s fears onto him, some sort of adrenaline attack. How it’s strong enough to induce hallucinations, Edward does not know, but he is aware of the danger that puts him in. He _cannot_ let his fear control him, not if he wants to survive.

The problem with adrenaline, though, is that it triggers fight or flight. Though Edward is a flight sort of man, sometimes that means nothing.

Instead of answering, he springs forward. Though not a strong man, Edward has the element of surprise on his side. He wraps his arms around Crane’s waist and puts all his weight into sending the man to the floor. They both tumble against the concrete, and Nygma feels the rough texture bang in knees and scrape at the fabric of his pants. He’s thinking too fast to worry, though, as he grabs hold of the Scarecrow’s neck and uses the man’s surprise to slam his head against the floor. Once. Twice. A third time, until the blue in his eyes is eaten by the shadow of his mask.

In a breath of a moment, he can breathe again, and takes several long inhales of air. When he’s done he allows himself to realise where he is and what he’s doing; Edward Nygma is straddling the hips of an insane man who is most likely unconscious beneath him. He scrambles off the body, growling to himself about all the hay on him now.

His mind comes to him and he remembers he’s in a captive situation. He needs to be resourceful, so he pats down the Scarecrow till he finds a ring of keys hidden in the lining of the man’s shirt. He takes these and as an after thought removes the belts of phials and syringes. Standing, he looks down the hallway he had been running down, and the hallway he had come from. Probably best to go towards the lion’s den if he wants to find a way out.

* * *

 

Edward hastily slams the door shut and looks around for a way to block it. A nearby filing cabinet it easy enough to push in the way of the doorknob, enough to hinder but not stop The Scarecrow.

After five minutes of running lost in this labyrinthian trap, he’d finally found a door that wasn’t locked. The ring of keys turned out worthless, as they hadn’t fit to a single door he came across.

He gives himself a moment to survey the room. There’s another door on the far side, unlabelled and solid metal. The room itself resembles an operating room. To the left centre is a long metal table with a sheeted figure on top of it. Edward is sure that if he lifts the sheet he will find a face from the GPD’s Missing Persons list. The floor around the table is bloodstained, which isn’t very promising.

Other than some surgical equipment, the room is rather empty. This does not appear to be Crane’s main room of operation. Still, Nygma takes a quick moment to look around, finding only finding a drawer full of empty glass vials, and some rather vicious claw marks.

He exits the room through the far door, which leads to a concrete staircase.

The concrete turns to linoleum as Edward reaches the top of the stairs. The door is locked, which wouldn’t even be an issue if he didn’t have the ring of keys, but certainly makes things simpler. He unlocks the door and locks it behind him before walking out into a moonlit hallway.

The floors are neatly tiled, though stained and tracked with the scars of constant feet and scrapes of small wheels. The windows are wooden and old, and the doors are all closed and locked. He ventures out cautiously, finding only numbered rooms he has no key to, and broken fluorescent lights. Then he looks out the windows and start to figure out where he is. The sun is halfway over the horizon of Gotham bay. Though Edward Nygma was never a patient of Arkham Asylum, he recognises its position in the city.

So, Jonathan Crane has been conducting, what? Experiments in the basement of the old asylum? It certainly wasn’t very original, to say the least. This did mean that he’d have to be set up somewhere though.

He tries nearby doors, but again they are locked. If Jonathan doesn’t have a key to it on his ring, why would it be important? A nearby map only confirms his location on the lower levels of the asylum, mostly surrounded by medical rooms, patient processing, security, and other necessities like a kitchen, and a staff room, along with a series of supply closets. The map showed Doctor’s offices to be on an upper floor, along with most of the cells. The basement wasn’t even indicated on the map, which suggested the area he was housed in had been out of use even when the building was in operation.

The offices were too far away from the basement to be of use to Crane, and the cells weren’t a good place for set up. As far as anyone knew, Arkham had been abandoned after it was shut down, meaning no one had seen activity there. It was unlikely that Crane would work near a window. This would restrict him to rooms in the middle of the layout. Of these, only one seemed appropriate. Edward followed the map to the security room.

It was actually quite far from his location, but considering how long he could have been running in the basement, it wasn’t impossible that the location of the cell he was in was near a different staircase. His hypothesis is certainly correct, though; the ring of keys opens the security office door, which reveals to be exactly what he was looking for.

The security room is exactly what it’s expected to be. There’s a large desk with several monitors, supposedly hooked up to cameras, but only two are turned on, and they only show the entrances of the building. There’s also a telephone and a laptop. The phone seems to be hooked up to the intercom system, as indicated by the scribbled note Crane supposedly left by it with instructions.

The fact that The Scarecrow needs to write himself technical reminders is strangely humanising…

Of course, being Crane’s workspace, there are more than half a dozen coffee mugs, some still full of stale coffee, and piles of papers. In the middle of the mess is a single laptop. It’s old and when Edward starts it up it takes ten minutes to turn on all the way. He spends the time going through the notes on the desk, compiling together ones of interest, with titles such as _Patient 12, Patient 32, Formula 6.1,_ and _Experiment Log_. There’s also a messily hand-drawn map of the basement. The computer is revealed to be almost useless, as it mostly contains a program that also runs security cameras, these ones hooked up to the basement. Edward finds the room he was kept it, as well as the operating room he found, and a series of hallways. Crane is still where Edward left him; knocked out on the floor of the hallway. Good.

There are no files on the laptop, which is unsurprising. It was pretty safe to assume most of Crane’s actual research was in another room, or even somewhere more secure than the Asylum.

Edward finds an old messenger bag in the corner of the room next to an empty filing cabinet. On top of the cabinet is a pile of miscellanea he only recognises because it’s the contents of his pockets; a burner phone, his house keys, and the address Selina gave him. His cane is nowhere to be found, which is annoying.

He takes his possessions and the bag, which he fills with the notes he deemed worthy. He glances back at the laptop. Crane is no longer lying on the floor. In fact, he’s not on the camera at all.

Edward flees.

* * *

 

It must be early morning. The sun is still rising, which leaves the streets dark and still mostly lit by streetlights. Not that this helps, as a good amount of Gotham streetlights don’t work. The city has other things to worry about, typically, which would amount to why Gotham has such shitty sidewalks, and almost never fixes its roads.

Edward tries to stick to the shadows, but there’s no energy eft in him to try too hard. The adrenaline has worn off, and now he’s fighting just to stop himself from collapsing in an alleyway, which certainly would spell doom for him.

He must look like easy prey tonight. His shoes are still torn up from his attempt at a gas mask, his pants have rips in them from the concrete floor, and his jacket is basically ruined. Somewhere in the night he lost his tie and cane, leaving him bedraggled and ruined in his hay covered, blood stained suit. Slung across his shoulders are the belts stolen from Crane’s body, something he had really only done as an afterthought, to disarm the man, but of course the orange filled vials do not make him seem any less suspicious. And of course he’s covered in scrapes and bruises. His shoulders and back feel particularly bad, and it’s a wonder if Crane had actually _dragged_ his body all the way to Arkham by his feet.

When a car pulls in front of him with a screech, he almost feels as if the end might be worth it. And as the headlights blind him, he vows to ruin crane, should he get out of this new predicament. Could it be the GPD, come to arrest him? OR perhaps someone else who wants to kill him, say some mafia or a rogue searching for their next victim.

Then someone says “Eddie?” And that all falls to confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i won't say this chapter was inspired by outlast but...it kind of was?  
> im not saying jon is stupid, but he probably still uses windows 98


	6. The Wrongs of a Kitty

“You are Eddie, right?” The girl in front of him is a complete stranger. She has long blonde hair tied at the back of her head, and is dressed in ratty grey sweatpants and a batman t-shirt with a dark overcoat pulled over. Her face is almost obscured by her large glasses, but he can make out blue, bagged eyes. She looks like she just rolled out of bed, got in the car, and took off. “Moody ginger guy in green? I got a picture, looks just like-“

“Who are you?” Edward asks, because this whole situation is baffling.

“Oh, I’m Harley! Harleen Quinzel, technically, but call me Harley! You are Eddie, right? Selina’s been looking all day for you!” The girl, Harley, pushes her glasses up her nose and sticks out her hand.

“Uh…Yes, I am Edward. What do you mean Selina’s been looking for me?” He didn’t know Selina cared enough, truly.

“What, you don’t think she would? She sent us all out on a search party after you didn’t drop off her car! Pissed Red the hell off when she had to go get it. We’ve been looking for you for like, a whole day or somethin’.” She drops her hand when he doesn’t shake it and shrugs. “Get in, Eddie, I’ll drive you to her place.” It’s doubtful that anyone should ever get into a stranger’s car in Gotham, but if it’s trusting this girl who knows Selina vs. facing the possibility of Crane catching up to him, the former is a much better option. Edward gets in the car.

Harley drives what can only be described as a piece of shit. It’s some sort of old, rusted car, but it’s been repaired in a Frankenstein fashion so many times, it doesn’t look like a real car anymore. It makes the sort of sound a dying cat might as it turns on, and the only thing vaguely clean in the whole vehicle is the seat belts, which she double checks he’s using before she takes off.

Eddie braces himself for horrible driving, perhaps he spends too much time with Selina, but Harley is the most careful driver he’s ever met. She uses her turn signals and signals with her hands, checks her mirrors regularly, drives at the speed limit, all while keeping a constant stream of chatter.

Apparently, she’s been out looking for him since midnight the day before, meaning he’d been missing for more than 24 hours. Selina had called her and ‘Red’, whoever that was, after she received a call from the garage saying her car was still around, and no one would wait for her to pick it up any longer, so she has five minutes to get it, or they leave it to Gotham. So, Red went to go pick up the car. Harley volunteered to head out on a search mission.

“Where were you, anyways? You look like hell.” She says untactfully.

“Kidnapped.” Edward doesn’t know where this ‘Harley’ stands on the knowledge of Gotham rogues, but he does know that it’s not exactly uncommon to be taken hostage around here.

“Woah, really? Who was it?” Harley seems genuinely impressed that he got away from anyone.

“That Scarecrow guy.” He shrugs, but Harley looks psyched.

“Wait, you actually saw him!?!?” Though the Scarecrow had been lurking around Gotham for the better part of three months now, no one had managed to get a picture of him. All they had were eye-witness accounts, and police sketches. “Is he really seven feet tall?”

Edward laughs. Whilst Crane is certainly tall, he’s no seven feet. “Not nearly.”

“Aw. Still, that’s pretty cool. What he want you for?” Harley takes a turn down Selina’s street, and Edward has never been so happy for a conversation to end.

“Sadistic amusement, I suppose.” He answers vaguely. Harley shrugs and pulls up to the curb.

“Get out here, I gotta go park.” The fact that she even cares that this is a no-parking zone in _Gotham_ demonstrates more about her character than anything ever could. Edward climbs out of the car, being careful not to wince when his sore legs hit the concrete. “Be right back!”

He’s standing alone in front of Selina’s apartment complex, and honestly he doesn’t know if he should go in or not. His own residence is only a half hour’s walk form here, it’d be easier to just go, but…If Selina really did send the hounds out looking for him…

He enters the building.

* * *

 

When he met Selina, she had been living in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Gotham. He too had been homeless at the time, though more by choice than circumstance. Now she was living penthouse in a still shady, though much better, neighbourhood. It has an elevator, which attests to it’s niceness. Edward rides to the top and knocks on Selina’s door. Two slow, three in rapid succession to mimic the tune of Tom Jones’ ‘What’s New Pussycat’.

It's not really a code, but as far as he knows he’s the only one who is enough of an annoying git to do it consistently.

The door flings open seconds later, an out of breath Selina in front of him. She looks tired, hair pulled back but obviously falling out of its tie, eyes more than sagging. When she sees Edward, she immediately wraps her arms around him and tugs him inside the apartment. “Eddie!”

Edward, who is not one to be touched under most circumstances, is shook. Still, he awkwardly pats his friend’s back in an attempt to at least reassure her.

“Where were you? Who was it?” She lets go of him to look him over, taking in the two belts slung over his shoulders, and his ripped clothing. “Wait is that…Eddie, what did Crane do to you?”

“So, you knew?” Edward had forgotten how angry he was with Selina. He stares at her, a levelled look that clearly demonstrates his feelings.

“Don’t give me that look, Eddie.” In her defence, she looks ashamed. Of course, he knew she had just spent the last day and half sending people scouring around the city looking for him, but that didn’t make up for the fact that she set him up in the first place.

“You introduced me to the Scarecrow, the fear obsessed _maniac_ and didn’t tell me?!” Edward watches as Selina’s face contorts in guilt.

“It seemed safer to keep that information to myself.” She admits. “Not my best move.”

“He drugged and kidnapped me, Selina! That man is a fucked up carcass of a creature who used me as a live test subject!” He hissed, pressing a finger to Selina’s chest and pushing. “I can’t believe you would be so stupid as not to tell me that the man I pissed off is on Gotham’s most wanted! Next to letting Isley drug me, this is the lowest you’ve been!” He holds back a growl and steps away from Selina.

She slams her fists to the sides of her body. “Pam was an accident, but Ed you’re just as to blame here! You push where you don’t belong and you know it!” Selina hisses.

“And who dragged me there in the first place? I’m never doing a fucking favour for you again.” Edward responds coldly. In a second he’s turning on heel and reaching for the door, only to find Harley standing on the other side, car keys in hand.

“Excuse me.” Edward mutters and shoulders past her.

“What? Eddie, Selina what happened?” Harley tries to call him back. “Was this ‘cause I couldn’t find a parking spot? I’m sorry!” He’s already gone.

* * *

 

Edward arrives at his home an hour later, practically collapsing into bed after divesting himself of his belongings and clothing. He’s exhausted, but his mind is abuzz with plans. Even though he wishes to sleep, he gets maybe half an hour of dozing before he’s awake and crawling into the shower, scrubbing grime and blood from his skin vigorously. It feels like the phantom eyes of the Scarecrow are still on his neck, even as he stands in his shower and cleans his hair for the fifth time, knowing fully well that no shampoo could take the piercing gaze away.

At least he hadn’t left the asylum empty handed. He brushes the stale taste from his teeth and gargles mouthwash until he erases the acrid shadow of death from his mouth. The Scarecrow was capable of the bringing the dead back from their graves; this was not a man to underestimate. Edward combs his hair until it is immaculate. He knows no one will see it. He combs it again. There is no puzzle that he can’t solve, he will solve Jonathan Crane. Nothing can erase the bags under his eyes, not even his expensive, professional greasepaint. Edward leaves the bathroom.

The phials of viscous orange fluid are intriguing, but not the place to start. Edward takes the stolen weapons and puts them in a secure area before sitting down at his desk and sorting through the piles of paper he took from Crane’s security nest.

Most of them are gibberish, of course. More than one note is just Crane reminding himself where specific keys work, or which buttons to push on the security console. There are a good many that refer to an experiment, written in the sort of chicken scratch a doctor can pride himself in, but as they are notes for himself, Crane does not elaborate much. Then there are experiment notes of various numbers.  

 _Experiment 12:_  
Test Subject: J1  
Formula: 3.7V  
  
Accelerated heartrate and breathing are still present, but have not reached dangerous levels.   
Reaction took a span of 2.5 minutes to fully appear. 

_Experiment 13:_  
Test Subject: J1  
Formula: 4V  
  
Formula will need to be adjusted so as not to cause asthmatic reactions to test subject(…)

Edward wonders if this J1 is Jonathan himself. The earliest notes he finds are all from test subject J1, the first document of a different subject not appearing till experiment 15. The latest he has are 26 and 27. __  
  
Experiment 26:  
Test Subject: AS  
Formula: 5.9V

_Subject presented visual and auditory hallucinations. Accelerated heart rate and breathing are still present. Subject appears to have witnessed ‘vermin’ coming out of the walls in large amounts. 2.7 seconds before reaction took place, effect lasted for 3.8 minutes. (…)_

_Experiment 26.2:_  
Test subject: AS  
Formula: 5.9I  
  
Subject underwent a mild seizure, and severe nerve damage. Subject no longer has use of legs. Further inspection needed(…)  
  
Experiment 26.3:  
Test subject: AS[D]  
Formula: n/a  
  
Subject’s nervous system is visibly damaged. Experiment had to be performed quickly before necrotic damage set in(…) 

26 is the only experiment Edward has notes for with the note [D] next to their name, but considering how many he doesn’t have, it becomes clear that this is not the first time a subject had died in the lab.

He wonders how long this has been going on.

 _Experiment 27:_  
Test Subject: EN  
Formula: 6V  
  
Subject rendered self unconscious before proper experiment could take place. Signs of effects appeared as far as 5 seconds after initial inhalation(…)Anxiety present without formula. 

There are no notes for Experiment 27, Formula 6I, but when Edward searches his body, he finds a sore spot on his arm that when pressed has the familiar sting on a needle’s kiss. He shivers and sets the papers inside, wondering just how long Crane had been doing this. Had he been experimenting when the asylum was still in operation? How many had died on his table? How many were patients? Colleagues? Students?

There’s only two papers that are actual chemical notes, one for formula 5 and another for formula 6. Both are nearly indecipherable with Crane’s apparent inability to write numbers, or words, or formulas. It’s horrific, honestly; pure doctor’s scratch.

They’d have to wait for later, though, after Edward acquires equipment to analyse the contents of the phials and syringes. For someone he had thought to be a metahuman, using powers beyond this world to shape other’s minds, Scarecrow was adding up to be just a human.

And an intriguing one at that. Whatever Edward had stolen from him, it was worth the work. Perhaps.

* * *

 

Early Monday morning, Jonathan reaches his office with a new shoulder bag clutched tightly in his hand. The building was silent, not even the janitor having come in yet, as he goes to unlock his door. Only…His door slips open with a gentle nudge of the key. It’s already unlocked, and the reason is undeniably clear as soon as he looks inside.

The room is shredded. This was not hyperbole; the room was shredded, torn to pieces, a tornado’s wrath wreck. It was almost as if someone had let a tiger let loose in the room, which wasn’t too unlikely. Papers were everywhere; torn into snow and violently scattered around the floor. His coffee mugs were all shattered, staining the carpet with their stale contents, and ruining a pile of graded tests. Every box was turned over, every book ripped and knocked to the floor, every pencil snapped in half, some embedded in the walls. A knife had been taken to his office chair, and five long gashes were across the front of his desk.

Methodical is too strong a word, but there's certainly a lot of purpose in this attack. It's clear that the person who did this wanted to make a big an impact as possible. 

Jonathan narrows his eyes. This would only be the beginning, he knew. The only remedy he knew was death, and if he killed the woman who did this, he knew hell would rain upon him. No, there was a much subtler way to fix this.

He wondered how badly Ms. Kyle needed that favour. Evidently not very much if she was so willing to carve up his office like this. Or perhaps Edward Nygma meant more to her than he had orginally though.

He didn’t think the man was worth so much, but now…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dammit i meant to update this so long ago...


	7. Idle Creatures

Edward felt lonely.   
  
It was unfair, really, to be lonely right now, but often times Eddie was finding himself thinking about something and reaching for a phone to tell Selina, only to remember how angry he was at her.   
  
It’s not that Selina and him tended to speak every day or anything, but they were together often enough that a world without her was very quiet.   
  
At least he could bury himself in his new project; figuring out what Jonathan Crane was up to. The equipment he needed to examine the viscous liquid The Scarecrow had kept on his person had finally arrived. Tonight he’d get the chance to take it apart and figure out what in hell was going on. For, surely, this all meant something. It had to mean something, something bigger and darker.   
  
Just yesterday he heard word that Catwoman had broken into Ace Chemicals, no doubt the favour Jonathan was asking for, as Selina had nothing to take there. She’d gotten out unscathed, of course, aside from a brief confrontation with the Bat which was no doubt unpleasant.   
  
Not that Edward cares.  
  
Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t care about Selina at all.   
  
Why should he care about a woman who left him to the sharks? Why should he care about her and her deceit, and lies? He wishes he could get away with not even thinking about her, but she’s a colleague. Nothing more of course, but it’s a dangerous life they all walk with the Batman on their tails. Too dangerous not to keep an eye open.   
  
But just that. Just a comfortable, normal interest over the on goings of colleagues. Nothing else.

He certainly wasn’t thinking about Selina. Not as he worked. Not as he walked. Not as he found his way to the coffee shop. He wasn’t thinking about Selina or her betrayal or how bad she had-

“Eddie?!” A familiar voice calls from across the Café he’s trying to buy coffee in. Edward briefly considers pretending he isn’t who she’s talking too, but that really wouldn’t be fair, she hadn’t even done anything wrong.

“Good afternoon, Harley.” He says with a practiced smile. She waves him over, and he really has no choice but to take his coffee and join her.   
  
“Hey there! You left ‘Lina’s so quick the other day, didn’t get to say goodbye.” She pouts from over her cup of what appeared to be tea. When she’s not rolling straight out of bed and into the car, she looks pretty nice; blonde hair piled into a bun on the top of her head, a nice blue sweater over a short white skirt, her thick glasses no doubt traded for contacts, and if she had bags over her eyes, she’d put make up over them.  
  
“Ah yes, sorry about that. Selina and I had a disagreement.”  
  
“Ha, I could tell! I understand, though, sometimes Selina doesn’t think of others the best. I think it’s ‘cause she spent so much time not trusting others. It’s a common trend for people with her sort of background; once you let someone in, no matter how much you like them, you still put yourself first.” Harley speaks in this sort of casual tone, as if discussing the psychological background of a friend is normal.   
  
“You speak from experience?” Edward isn’t really interested in Harley’s backstory, but he is capable of being polite. If he wants. If he tries really hard.

“Not really. We all got our demons, but I didn’t grow up with the same sort, you know? But I’m studying this sort of stuff right now. Getting my doctorate!” Ah yes, this _was_ the friend Selina and Isley were doing a favour for. That would mean, though…

“So you were a student of Jonathan Crane?” Eddie asks before he can stop himself, curiosity and the promise of a puzzle piece getting the best of him.

“Hm? Oh, you know him too? Yeah, I had the professor a few years ago. Actually, I just got back from seeing him!” So Crane had held up his end of the bargain, whatever Selina was doing for him? “It was nice seeing him again. He’s fun, unlike most them professors over at Gotham U.”

“What was Crane like as a professor?” Eddie has no impulse control.  
  
“Pretty typical lecture type, really passionate about his work, though. If he had the right sort of class, he’d do wonderful.”

“So his students are the fall asleep type?”   
  
“Oh, yeah. His class was pretty exciting when he wanted it to be, though. He once fired a gun into the back of the lecture hall. Scared the hell out of everyone, it was hilarious!” Harley laughs more than the anecdote deserves.

“A gun? A real gun?!” Suitably, Nygma is incredulous. Crane was certainly more insane than he had previously thought.

“Yeah. We all thought he was gonna be sacked for it, but he showed up and collected our essays the next week. Had us write a twenty page paper on how the gunshot made us feel, physically and mentally. It was brutal.” Of course that was what she cared about… “There’s a hole in the back of one of the seats, still. Wasn’t even a blank! I’d say he’s insane, but I dunno, maybe he’s a genius!”  
  
“Well, that’s certainly one way to teach students fear…” An effective way, even, but reckless. What in the world was Crane? A genius or an idiot? A sadist or a scientist? None? All of the above?  
  
All he really knew was that the man was a puzzle and, unfortunately, Eddie’s never been able to resist those.  


* * *

  
Edward and Harley speak until both of them have empty cups, after which Harley says she has to get to her internship now, but here’s her number, and they should meet up soon, and also is he mad at Selina? Maybe they should talk it out?  
  
It’s actually rather exhausting to be around her, but Harley is a nice girl. She’s certainly smarter than most would assume, what with her brash personality, and not at all false smiles. Edward doesn’t know if she’ll be able to make it in the professional medical industry like that, but then again she might be tougher than she appears. Looks can be deceiving.   
  
Nygma returns to his apartment to his equipment, computers, and carefully concealed surveillance.  He unpacks the new equipment and closes up the apartment; blinds down and covered, door locked and blocked, noise machine on and releasing a pleasant, low buzz of staticky brown noise to simulate silence.  
  
Then he sits and works.

* * *

 

“Bye professor!”   
  
Ugh.   
  
Jonathan Crane rubs his temples with one hand as he packs up his bag with the other.   
  
The worst thing about being a teacher was most certainly the students. Not that Crane necessarily hated them, he just hates people, and students are people he has to see and interact with every. Single. Day. Honestly, unemployment was a much nicer option, but he has bills to pay, experiments to fund, and a school willing to grant him money for said experiments should he just spend a few hours a day teaching psychology classes and keep his papers vague.  
  
Office hours were tedious and frankly unnecessary. He’d yet to find a student who actually didn’t understand a project or concept and wasn’t just looking for excuse to skip class or suck up.  Unfortunately, this past week had many reasons for students to be stopping by.   
  
Most of this was at the behest of Ms. Kyle, whether she knew it or not (Though it would not surprise Jonathan if she did), who had shredded the freshly graded reports and exams of every single one of Crane’s classes. An entire quarter’s worth of work ruined. He’d lied and told the students that this was the work of faulty plumbing systems which had flooded his office, ruining all his work and furniture. This would ultimately explain why the entire interior of his work space had been replaced, from the desk to the bookcase.   
  
There was really no way to save the papers, though, and asking the students to rewrite their reports, or take their exams again wouldn’t work. For one, it would be too easy for them if they took the same exam twice, and much too difficult to write a twenty page essay in the time he needed it in. It would be worthless, and all the work would be garbage.   
  
Despite finding a solution that was both equal and fair, he still had students in and out every day asking him for extra credit, or complaining about their new grades, as if they were his fault. It was headache inducing.   
  
Not to mention today had been his first appointment with Miss Quinzel.   
  
When he had Harleen Quinzel as a student a few years ago, he had been…Rather unimpressed with her performance. Despite showing more passion and drive than the majority of her peers, she lacked academically, particularly in analysis. Her essays were passable but not brilliant, and she often took wild turns in her work that made no sense at all. She would be a much better student if she stuck to the classics, but she seemed determined to find something new.   
  
Admirable, but ultimately useless if she doesn’t have anything to grab onto in the first place. She was a child; a child desperate to be taken seriously, but who was physically incapable of acting in a way that would earn that kind of respect. He doubted she’d ever really get there…  
  
But even without being a remarkable student, or a hopeful future psychologist, Harleen was memorable. Crane mostly remembered her laugh. He’d done some dangerous things with her class, like he did with all of his lectures, but hers had been the only one where he open fired a gun on his students. Everyone had screamed, but when the act had quieted down Miss Quinzel had cackled. She found humour in situations most would consider terrifying. It was interesting.   
  
And now he could see why Ms. Kyle was so worried about her. Though perky and cheerful, something was lacking from her demeanour; like something was sucking out pieces of her sanity and happiness.   
  
Harleen was an interesting case. It was, perhaps, his professional curiosity that had him still taking it despite Kyle’s attack. He would find a different way to get back at her, and to punish Nygma for his insults.  


Everyone would eventually pay, of course. That’s how things work; everything has to balance out in the end. Else why would h-  
  
“Professor?” A voice says from behind him. Jonathan pauses.   
  
“Yes?” He turns to see a small girl standing in front of him, nervously clutching her bag strap. Was she one of his students? Admittedly, he didn’t tend to look at them, but she didn’t seem unconsciously familiar.   
  
“I’m sorry to bother you but…Well, I thought you ought to know…” Oh damn, was she going to annoy him now? He’d already left the building, that meant he was off limits for questions, but more so he was at the parking lot, that meant to leave him the fuck alone! Don’t children learn social nuances these day- “That there’s a huge bird on your head?”  
  
…What?  
  
Jonathan, stunned, slowly looks up to see the face of a fairly large crow staring down into his eyes. Fortunately, he doesn’t even blink, only lowers his eyes to look at the girl blankly. “Thank you for informing me.” He then turns back around and climbs onto his motorcycle.   
  
Crane rides home with the corvid clinging to his hair and flapping its wings. It only leaves when he opens the door to his home, where it pecks at his ear and flies away.   
  
Some things are unexplainable.   


* * *

  
  
Edward is extremely careful while neutralizing the substance he stole from Crane.   
  
A part of him desperately wanted to keep it. Perhaps so he could use it against Crane, or find an antidote. Alas, it would be fruitless. Keeping the substance around was dangerous, and no antidote was possible.   
  
It was actually quite clever, Nygma would begrudgingly admit, how this experimental substance would supposedly work. As far as he can tell, it’s created to be a fast acting neurotoxin that would located portions of the brain and ‘turn off’ protective functions, flooding the body with adrenaline at the same time. This would both stop portions of fight or flight and bring out more ‘pure’ form of anxiety.   
  
Though antitoxins are difficult to make, this one would have to take someone with a far greater genius than Nygma and much more expertise than even Dr. Isley possessed. It was woven together so intricately that even Crane wouldn’t be able to immune himself to it at this stage without making it more unstable than it already is.   


And it is _immensely_ unstable. The good doctor had beaten it down to something that would no longer put most test subjects at a permanent risk, unless you consider death a permanent side effect of using it, but a single change in it at this stage could potentially cause a number of dangerous reactions, including but not limited to creating, essentially, a self-replicating biological weapon. And according to Crane’s notes, the toxin had roe than a number of unwanted effects. For one, it didn’t do what he wanted it to do, though Nygma didn’t have the notes to tell him exactly what that was.

His best answer was fear in its purest form, which didn’t seem like the right answer to Edward. Of course, sensible answers are for sensible men, which Jonathan Crane was certainly not.

No, the toxin should not be explored further. Not by Nygma or by anyone. There were many in Gotham who would happily use this substance to kill off entire blocks in an afternoon of cardiac arrest. That was certainly not in Edward’s best interest. One cannot rule a kingdom of dust.   
  
So, Edward neutralises it and disposes of the substance discreetly. He briefly considers using it against Crane, but…No. No, it was far to volatile and there was no interest in doing the Scarecrow’s work _for_ him. It probably wouldn’t even annoy the damn man, who had no pride as far as Nygma could tell. The bastard.   
  
The real question was why the hell would anyone want to concentrate fear into a toxin?!? What kind of sick idiot does that?   
  
Oh, Edward is positive there’s some sort of Freudian excuse behind it. Some sort of childhood trauma that lead to this outright obsession with fear. Perhaps abuse? Poverty? An isolated incident the likes of which most have never seen? What in the world was Crane, anyways? Was it all just this…Just this science and these horrific studies. This sick fascination with the bizarre. With fear?  
  
This is pointless.   
  
Edward lays down his tools and stores away his notes. He lies down on his couch and stares of at the ceiling. Finds a crack there.   
  
He falls asleep thinking over and over about how he should fix the crack in the ceiling. And when he wakes up, he’s put all thoughts of Crane aside for something better. Something more…Stimulating.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaa! I'm glad people have enjoyed this so much! I've never really approached this kind of story before, and I don't normally touch the batverses but...I don't know, I'm having fun with this!
> 
> Sorry that it takes awhile for me too update. I have so many ideas, but stringing them together into a coherent story is taking more time than I expected. If I keep getting ideas, this story may drag on for far too long...


	8. Raid the Larder

Skies were clear and dark, the light of the city polluting just enough that there were no stars in sight, but not enough to yet see the thin lines of smog that flowed from local factories. IT hadn’t rained in days, which meant the streets were relatively clean, and Gotham’s more wealthy residents were prepared to dress up.  
  
It was a good night for a heist.

It had taken weeks for Edward to get his mind off of the extremely volatile substance he had stolen from the Scarecrow. Not that it was really any interesting or fascinating or even clever. The ‘fear toxin’ was _not genius._ It was in no way smart. It was silly. Stupid. It made no sense, and not just morally or motive-wise, but chemically. How could someone create such a complicated, intricate toxin capable of portioning off areas of the mind and acting accordingly?  
  
Idiotic.  
  
_Crane was not a genius._

Not that that mattered anymore. The sadistic doctor wasn’t worth the energy nor space in Nygma’s mind. He’d moved on with his schemes to bigger and better things. Like proving that he didn’t need the help of Selina Kyle to commit a robbery.  
  
Granted he didn’t really need the money. If he needs money he can get it via hacking in just moments, it’s not like security is difficult to fight. That’s not the point. It’d been weeks, but in no way had he forgiven Catwoman for her slight. She’d basically sent him to death! And there was a very easy way to make his feelings clear to her.  
  
The Gotham Museum was holding a gala to showcase the opening of their new Precious Artefacts exhibit. All of the city’s elite would be attending, naturally, and among them was Selina Kyle, he was sure of it. Part of the new exhibit was a Cat’s Eye amulet that was practically bait for Catwoman, not to mention that Ms. Kyle seldom, if ever, missed a social event.  
  
It was a perfect opportunity to stomp on Selina’s toes.  
  
The problem with a city like Gotham is it fails to realise its own flaws. For instance; everyone in Gotham knows the crime rate is ridiculous, but the actual efforts to bring down said rate are dismal. However, banks only get broken into so many times before they invest in high tech security and some mafia assistance, to keep the economic status quo. Same goes for museums and art galleries. When you know you’re in a city full of threats, you dish out for the good locks, not just bars on doors or security guards, but the real fancy systems. Protection without actually tackling the problem is perhaps the most human trait Edward can think of.  
  
But this too is flawed. Because, you see, there is no security system Edward Nygma has yet to find a way into. He is, after all, a Genius. He schemes were perfect. And the sort of security systems that keep people out also trap everyone in.  
  
He would succeed.

* * *

  
  
“This Sunday marks the reopening of the Grand Theatre, which was destroyed two years ago during a hostage rescue mission. 200 people were held captive when a performance of Macbeth was taken over by a man calling himself ‘The Riddler’. Though the GPD was able to ultimately save the captives, seven lives were lost on that day to The Riddler’s death trap.”

The face on the news is a clever disguise, but not clever enough. The Riddler’s mask in its constant cocked brow state obviously changed the facial features of the man below, quite artfully, actually; hid his deviated septum for something more retroussé, deepened his brow, sharpened his cheek bones. His hat hid the exact style of his hair and made his ears stick out less. Even the cut of his collar made his neck seem longer than it was. It’s almost as if Riddler had chosen an ideal man and made his costume around that idea. The mark of a severely insecure individuals. Smart. Genius, maybe. But it did nothing to hide his exceptionally irritating smirk.

“The new Theatre has advanced security systems and foundation that will establish a more stable base. Though the GPD assures us measures have been taken to ensure this new theatre will not be held hostage again, we remind you that the Riddler is still at large.”

“Nygma.”

 

* * *

  
  
Selina Kyle dislikes attending a social event without a date. Not because she feels like she needs company, nothing childish like that, but because people make the best accessories. As nice as a necklace or a purse can be, there’s no other way to show off than to catch someone everyone knows. That’s how you succeed.  
  
She’d been a little busy recently, though, and her back up dates were all unavailable (or not speaking to her, in the case of Eddie). It’s fine, though. She can just steal someone else’s date.  
  
Or…  
  
Selina smiles to herself as she sees the newest guest enter the museum, holding up her own glass to her lips to hide her predatory grin.  
  
Bruce Wayne shakes hands with the museum owner and curator, kind smile and practiced posture. Alone for once without any sort of accompaniment.  
  
How ideal.  
  
Selina pours herself a glass of red wine, something that will stain the white pattern along her predominantly black dress before she approaches the front of the room, moving towards a group of people by the wall with purpose. She doesn’t even look at Mr. Wayne, seemingly too focused on confronting with some important stranger, which is why it works so well when she finds herself colliding into a hard, broad chest, hands reaching to catch her shoulders even as wine splashes over both of them.  
  
“Oh dear!” Selina worries.  
  
“Sorry about that.” Mr. Bruce Wayne apologises good naturedly, even though it is clearly not his fault and his shirt is much more effected by the ordeal than her dress is.  
  
“No no, it’s my fault.” Selina frets, trying to clean off the wine with her hands, to little effect. “I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings, I am so sorry.”  
  
“I’ll get the staff to grab something for us. Let’s step out of the public eye for a second.” He makes a subtle gesture to a group of people who are watching their interaction like starving hawks waiting for a new meal.  
  
“Oh gosh!” Selina gasps, immediately letting Bruce Wayne lead her out of the room and into an office, stopping one of the staff on the way to ask for some assistance.  
  
“Here; this should at least get the wine off your neck.” Bruce offers Selina a handkerchief, which she demurely accepts and uses to clean off her neck and cleavage with much faux-embarrassment. “That was a rather rude trick you pulled there.” He states, shouldering off his suit jacket and undoing his tie.  
  
“W-what trick?” Selina stutters, face red. “I sincerely didn’t mean to-“  
  
“It’s not the first time someone has ‘accidentally’ spilt wine on me, miss.” The richest man in Gotham is smiling, good-natured and polite, even as he calls her out. “And you’re tipping your hand by not looking away.”  
  
Selina’s ears are hot and red as she turns her eyes away from where the man is unbuttoning his newly stained shirt with quick efficiency, revealing the toned chest beneath. This time, though, her flush is from the anger of being caught more than anything else. “Hmph…Fine, you caught me.” She crosses her arms, mulling over that fact that there’s wine in her boobs for nothing.  
  
“You know, there’s a lot nicer ways to start a conversation.” A museum employee enters the room with a clean white shirt, a bottle of seltzer, and some towels. Obviously Bruce is used to this, because he hands off the stained shirt and tugs on the new one, buttoning up a shirt that is perfectly tailored to his frame, as if he came to the gala with an extra shirt on purpose. “A name, for example.” He wets towel with the bubbly water before offering it to Selina.  
  
She pouts when she sees the offered towel, but ultimately accepts it. “I’m Selina. Selina Kyle.” She introduces haughtily, as if she’s still hung up on how he caught her.  
  
“And my name is Bruce Wayne. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Kyle. Even if it is after you pour wine all over me.” He shakes her hand, not seeming bothered by her blotchy red embarrassment.  
  
“Yes well…” Ugh, why was she so tongue tied? It was a bit surprising that Bruce Wayne of all people was so personable, but it’s not like he’s any more charming then all the other men she meets at these sort of outings. “It’s not like it’s so easy for a girl to approach a man like you.”  
  
“And what do you mean by that? Am I so intimidating?” He quirks an eyebrow, amused.  
  
“Imposing might be a better word. Not everyone can fill a room just by looking at it.” She’d done the best she could with the stain and finally sets the cloth aside. “It’s impressive, to say the least.”  
  
“Good to know, Miss Kyle.” He’s smiling. It’s a small smile, but his lips are quirked up ever so slightly, eyes light and playful.  
  
“Anytime, Mr. Wayne.” Selina smiles back. “Though I do wonder…If you knew it was a game, why did you play? Just toying a girl along like that is almost as rude, you know.”  
  
“Am I not allowed to play the game too?”  
  
And that’s when the light drops.

* * *

  
  
“Hello, Gotham~” A voice croons from an unknown audio source. The crowd mutters in a wave as they look around in the dark, finding nothing, of course. “Riddle me this; the more of me you have, the less you’ll see. What am I?” No response from the crowd, only murmurs circulating the room in fear. “No idea? Well, here’s a hint, simpletons; _you’re currently in it_.”

Something whirrs around the room, the mechanical deployment of metal and gears, slowly grating itself against the walls of the room and echoing back to the gala attendees. They’re punctuated with a loud clang! Followed by the dark chuckle of their captor. “Let’s try something easier; though I am quite small, I fill the whole room. What am I?”  
  
No takers. Of course not, they knew better by now than to try and _guess_ the riddles. After all, everyone in Gotham remembered the attack on the Grand Theatre the year before. Though a small event compared to the time the streets of downtown Gotham were frozen solid, or the recent serial kidnappings, the attack had marked the Riddler as someone to avoid, if you could. Every single one of the audience members who failed to answer his riddles were dead now. And he had gotten his way.

“No? I see…You’re all worthless! How charming to know Gotham’s most elite are idiots.” Slowly light fades into the room, dim and tinted in green. Sounds of surprise ring out around the crowd of elite as the guests realise the many windows of the room are now blocked with heavy metal casings, obviously the source of the grating metal noise. “Modern technology is lovely, isn’t it? Of course, nothing is really a match for a genius like me. Now let’s try a third one; Pleasure depends on my existence, or so they say, and though I cannot be held or touched you often feel me. Though I can be soft and I can be sharp, I leave no visible mark. What am I?”  
  
Once again the room is silent.  
  
“Anyone? Oh come, one of you must be able to figure it out! Use those heads of yours for once!” It always amazed him how absolutely dim everyone else is. No matter, though. This was, after all, the distraction.  
  
And, naturally, there would be consequences anyways.

* * *

 

“The door won’t open!” Selina says after scrounging around in the dark for the handle. “It’s an electronic lock too. We’re stuck!”  
  
“Let me see.” Bruce Wayne’s voice is far closer than Selina expected. “Sorry.” He adds as he brushes against her, reaching to find the lock too, only for his fingers to touch hers in passing. His hands are large and warm, and his chest presses just close enough to her bare shoulder that she can feel the heat radiating off of him. He apologises again and fully graps the door handle, feeling along its edges.

She’s right, though. Of course she is. There’s no keyhole for the door, only a magnetic lock. “We won’t be able to pick ourselves out. Doors like this are supposed to have a failsafe, though, for safety protocols.”  
  
“Unless the door is convinced it’s blocking out the danger.” Selina adds, ear pressed against the wall. “Listen.”  
  
With them both still and silent, they can hear muffled voices in the distance. An arrogant chuckle, the sound of a frightened crowd, a riddle.

“The Riddler?” Bruce questions. “Only one I know who uses riddles in their monologues. Though I don’t know what he’s doing here; museum Galas don’t seem like his crowd.”

“Perhaps he’s upset he wasn’t invited.” Selina sounds less than happy as she continues to listen to the man toying with the crowd over the loudspeaker.

“We’ll need to find a way out of here, then.” Bruce steps away from Selina, the warmth of his body fading as his footsteps slowly circle the room. She tries not to lament the loss.

“Wouldn’t it be safer if we stayed in here?” Selina’s not one to sit and hide, but she knew better than to mess with Eddie, especially when he was in a crass mood. Hell, she wouldn’t be surprised if this specific attack was a petty revenge plot on her. Besides, she was kind of enjoying her time in this rather small room with a rather rich man…

“If Riddler doesn’t know we’re in here, we’re the only ones who can go get help.” Who knew Mr. Bruce Wayne, richest guy in Gotham, was such a good samaritan? “The staff are captives the same as us, and they’re the only ones who know we’re here. If we can get out of this room we can at least try and alert the GPD.” Or Batman. Batman was always an option.  
  
“Well, we can’t do much in this darkness…” Selina falls away from the door to search for a light source. She finds the office desk easily and begins the task of locating the drawers by touch and opening them, followed by feeling around for a flashlight or something, anything, to light the room. The first few drawers are proving useless, but then her hand slides over something cylindrical. “I’m pretty positive keeping a candle in a museum is against some sort of code.” She quips.  
  
A tiny dot of light illuminates her face as she pulls her cigarette lighter out of her purse. Though she cannot see Bruce through the darkness, she smiles and lights the candle. Across the room, the man is staring back at her with a look of approval.  
  
“Good job, I think I might have found a way out.”

* * *

  
The crowd was not doing well. Even after his threats were proven good and true, maiming a fair number of the audience, no one was trying! Perhaps a lesser man would find himself lashing out after this sort of treatment, but Edward Nygma is not a lesser man. He is, in fact, far greater than the common man! And he can control his temper.  
  
Besides, this wasn’t about the riddles.

Well, of course, the riddles are important. The riddles are _always important_ , but here they weren’t the test he was presenting them as. They were the distraction.  
  
He’d already acquired his prize, so now there was just the matter of getting out safe and sound. So far, no one seemed to have alerted the GPD, so he had time, but there was no guarantee that a certain Bat wouldn’t show up and ruin all his hard work.

Speaking of small, annoying mammals…Where the hell was Selina? He’d caught her on security cameras at the beginning of the night, but soon lost track of her in the crowd. She hadn’t appeared at all during his riddles and traps…Where could she have gone?  
  
His question is answered, though he does not know it, when his hack on the museum’s system shows that someone is trying to get past his walls of text and code. Well…Seemed it was time to go!

* * *

 

Selina couldn’t stop herself from coughing after she and Bruce excited the entirely too dusty air vent. The night air was cold, and not even remotely suited for her thin formal attire. Bruce Wayne, ever the gentleman, offered her his suit jacket before he left to go contact the police, telling Selina to get somewhere safe.

For once, it seemed like she was actually in a place to take this advice. It didn’t seem like a good idea to go back in and tamper with Eddie’s plot, nor was it wise to try and take advantage of the confusion. Damage control would have to wait till morning. Selina headed home.

* * *

 

Defences already slipping, Riddler runs for the exit via rooftop. He can hear the sound of Gotham’s police in the distance, the far away thrum of a helicopter closing in. Not that he cares about that. No. He is far too focused on the knowledge that the GPD is always one step behind his true threat. Which meant that Batman was most likely already here and making a beeline to attack.  
  
Getting to a nearby rooftop and exiting down the fire escape was simple and soon Riddler was sprinting through an alleyway towards where he’d hidden his escape route. That was the exact moment when things went pear-shaped.  
  
One moment the Riddler was running, the next he was on his hands and knees, a foot digging into his back. “ _Hello, Edward~”_ A raspy voice hisses, digging a heel against Riddler’s spine. He feels the bones scrape together and bites his lip to stop himself from calling out.  
  
“Scarecrow.” Riddler states. The heel is turned and pressed down. Each vertebrae feeling so singular in the moment. “How did you even find me?”  
  
_“Police scanners are reasonably easy tools to acquire.”_   Scarecrow is obviously very proud of himself, putting more and more pressure on the smaller man’s spine.  
  
It takes tremendous effort to breath, let alone move, but Riddler knocks himself to the side anyways, groaning as he rolls across the filthy alleyway away from the sadistic boot that tries to get him again. “I swear if this ruins my suit-“  
  
_“What? You’ll talk me to death?”_ Now lying on his back, Riddler can clearly make out Scarecrow’s outline in the dark of the alleyway. Though he had certainly looked disturbing back in Arkham, here in the pitch-black night he was terrifying. The torn and raggedy features of Scarecrow’s morbid, smiling macabre mask only lit by a far away streetlamp, the only colour that can be seen a faint orange and cold tint to his goggles. His gaze is glowing, casting shadows amongst the brick and concrete, reflecting the devil in him, perhaps, in the shadows.

“Oh, I think I can do better than that.” Riddler pulls himself to his feet, swiftly grabbing his cane and twirling it in his hand. “For instance, riddle me this; if a man is his name and his name is his weakness, then what will happen when I give his name away?” He smirks, stopping his twirling to plant his cane in the ground with a definitive click.  
  
“ _You wouldn’t be that idiotic.”_ Scarecrow hisses. “ _If you give away my name, I can easily give away yours.”_  
  
So, he wanted to play it that way, then? Well, that would not do.  
  
Smiling in an achingly smug way, Riddler steps closer to his new assailant. “Let’s get one thing clear, Scarecrow; you’re the one who has something to lose here.” Edward punctuates his point with a stab from his cane into the Scarecrow’s chest. The horrendous creature growls, but makes no move to step forwards, tensing like he knows he’s in a precarious situation. Smart man.  
  
“Here’s what happens if you out me to all of Gotham; I lose my renter’s insurance, I will no longer be able to acquire brunch on weekends without a hassle, and I’ll have to be a little more careful when I leave the house.” He seems annoyed, but not particularly angry at the idea of being outed. Who Edward was without the mask disappeared a long time ago. He’d always be a bit more Riddler than Eddie for the rest of his life.

You come to terms with the demons you cannot conquer.

“If I out you though…Well, you’ll lose your chance, won’t you? Your work space, your job, your future plans with Arkham?” Edward grins as he watches Crane flinch ever so slightly, as if he hadn’t known Edward figured out his scheme. “You’ll lose your free test subjects and you’ll lose your funding. You have nothing over me, Jonny. Now fly off and bother someone else.” The Riddler drops his cane with a smirk, swinging it back to his side so he can lean on it again, ever so casual.

 _“You can’t say anything if you’re dead.”_   The grating voice behind the mask breaths. His body is tensed and poised as if readying himself to attack.

“You’d have to kill an awful lot of foes at this point to save yourself.” At least two more individuals knew his identity, as far as Edward knew. And one of them would be livid if Edward disappeared, no matter how angry he was with her right now. It’s nice to have insurance.  
  
Clawed gloves clench into fists, betraying the cord Riddler successfully struck.  
  
“Your choice, Jonny. Leave me alone or abandon that doctorate you lucked into.”  
  
And that’s when Scarecrow releases the cannister of fear gas.  
  
The alley fills with a thick cloud of neurotoxin, but that is effectively useless when Nygma pulls out a mobile gas mask and snaps it on.

Maybe Nygma was not a genuine genius like he claimed, but he certainly wasn’t an idiot. Crane should have suspected his fear gas wouldn’t be an option once his prey found out it was airborne. Of course, there was always the intravenous toxin, but there was the small issue of _someone_ having stolen the majority of his stock.  
  
“ _You have something of mine._ ” The Scarecrow rasps.  
  
Riddler’s eyes crinkle with mirth. “Oh do you mean that tote bag I took with me? You can have it back if you give me back my cane.” Though muffled by the gasmask, his voice is still quite clear, that insufferable smirk just oozing out of his mouth.  
  
“ _You know what I mean.”_ Granted, Jonathan really did miss that bag. His new replacement lacked the many pockets his old one had.  
  
“Sorry, dear, but I don’t have your toxin. It’s gone.”  
  
Scarecrow freezes. “You…You…” That was not good. “ _YOU WHAT? WHAT DID YOU DO WITH IT!??!”_ With a growl, the spindly horrow show leaps forward and wraps his pointy nailed hands around the Riddler’s throat, shoving him back against the alley wall. “ _WHO DID YOU GIVE IT TO??? DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU’VE DON- YOU IDIOT!!!!”_ He feels his own hands tighten around the smaller man’s neck, digging his thumbs into hiss windpipe. When had he done it??? Who had he given it to??? To think his toxin was now in the hands of someone else. Someone he didn’t know, possibly, or even worse; someone he does know, like Joker. Idiot idiot idio-  
  
“I didn’t…Give it…To anyone!” Riddler chokes out, hand dropping his cane so he can grab at the claws around his neck, trying to tug them away.  
  
“ _WHAT?”_  
  
Gosh, why was he yelling so much? Riddler raises his knee into the Scarecrow’s crotch, ducking away as the spindly man jumps back in surprise and pain. Wow. The guy should really be wearing a cup. “I don’t have your toxin because I _disposed of it.”_ He hisses out, ducking out of the way as the Scarecrow tries to grab him again.  
  
Disposed of it? That was even worse! If the toxin was in the sewer system it could-  
  
“I’m not an idiot, Jonny. I neutralized the serum down to nothing before I got rid of it through bio-waste. It’s not like I was just going to keep the stuff laying around where any two-faced fuck or laughing asshole might come across it.” The very idea that Nygma would be stupid enough not to neutralise the serum seemed to make the man rather put off.  
  
Of course; the man’s egomania. Actually, that could work quite well…  
  
Scarecrow hisses out expletives until he calms himself enough to speak proper again. _“Apologies, then.”_ It’s difficult to relax his posture when he’s still so livid, but he at least drops his shoulders, smiling unseen behind his mask, voice saccharine and thick. “ _Of course you’re not an idiot,_ Edward _.”_ The scarecrow croons, raspy voice smoothing to purr out the man’s name as he takes a careful, cautionary step forward. “ _You’re a genius, after all.”_  
  
The Riddler finds himself stilling as the praise rolls over him, his hands clutching tightly to the wall behind him. “This won’t work.” He states, trying not to betray his emotions in his voice.  
  
“ _Of course it won’t, darlin’.”_   Scarecrow lays on his southern accent, warm and honeyed as he takes another step, and another, pressing himself forward again towards the other man. “ _You’re too good for my tricks, aren’t you? Too clever.”_ He’s standing close now, oh so close. Edward tries not to let his eyes slide closed as he feels a hand on his shoulder, a hard, warm body pressing close. “Such a _smart, sweet boy”_ The scratchy voice is gone now, replaced with hot breath that slips over the Riddler’s neck. Scarecrow must have removed his mask, must have…  “Good, good. Now why don’t you just take a nap and we’ll-“  
  
Edward jolts up at the feeling of a needle pressing into his neck. No. No he would not go through that again. He growls and dives into Scarecrow with his shoulder, surprising the man who suddenly finds himself knocked onto the ground, a broken syringe in his hand.  
  
“Nice try, asshole.” Riddler spits before he stamps down his boot on Jonathan’s face, watching with great pleasure as the man’s body features turn scarlet, his face twisting in pain.  
  
There’s no time to revel in his victory, though, as sirens are ringing in the distance. Certainly he could not stay here any longer, but…

The Riddler stares down at Scarecrow’s bleeding face. He could not be here right now, but neither could Scarecrow. If Scarecrow were found here, well… Jonathan Crane would be ruined.

Not that he cares. Jonathan Crane isn’t a genius, and he isn’t interesting in the slightest. He’s just a sadistic old man with a mean streak a mile wide.  
  
But…This wasn’t the time or place, was it? And getting Scarecrow caught by the Bat would be no benefit to him…  
  
Riddler sighs and quickly strips Jonathan of his outfit, watching the man glare at him with bleary eyes. Evidently he was floating between consciousness, and he continues to try and grab at the Riddler with little effect, only managing to hinder the attempts of being undressed.  
  
All Riddler does is rid the man of his most notable costume pieces like his mask and shirt and throw them in a nearby dumpster. Then, with one final glare at Jonathan Crane, he leaves with his prize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honour of Catwoman and Batmans' not-wedding, I decided to put some selina kyle/bruce wayne action in this chapter. I also wrote most of this chapter about a month ago...
> 
> Whelp.


	9. Mouse in a Cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things were quiet for too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any mention of how fear toxin works is 100% me creating bullshit off of my memories of high school physiology classes. Which is to say; I know nothing.

Time passes as if life does not care about what happened between Edward and Crane. Weeks and then months and then it is encroaching on winter and Edward is closing a discreet real estate deal with Oswald Cobblepot. In the dark of the Iceberg lounge on a cold night, he sits in the dim-light of a private, sound-proof booth with a pen and paper, scribbling down notes on how he can get his equipment moved from his apartment into the large vacant space he just bought up on the outskirts of the upper west side of Gotham.  
  
He’d been getting too much attention lately and was anxious with the belief his own position had been compromised. Too many nights of knowing he is being watched and followed, too many days where he doesn’t feel alone, despite knowing he is alone. Like a rat in a cage, he is restless and trapped. Evidently, he felt that giving himself a new, more secure base would remedy this.  
  
So here he was; fixing his own problems.

Oswald has walked out to go handle some…Well he called them “Security breaches” which Edward is positive means he’s busy getting someone’s knee caps snapped. He cares not, as long as no one bothers him.

He’s in costume tonight; suited and masked, but hatless for once as it was getting in the way of his figures. Penguin was the best choice for a rogue to make a transaction like this, but he’s far from cheap. Not that money ever felt like an obstacle to Riddler.

“Up and down and up and down…” He murmurs to himself, scribbling figures down furiously, much too fast for most to interpret the information. The once white paper has been heavily stained in emerald green numbers and symbols. Were his hands not gloved, the ink would have soaked into his skin. “If a man has…But he must give…Then how much will he…”

“You’re mumbling, Eddie.” Penguin is back, sliding into the book with a new stack of papers.

Riddler snaps his mouth shut. Right. “I figured out the payment plan based on the considered exchange rate of favour to income. All I had to do was-“

“Eddie, we both no I have no mind for your equations. I’ve already got something in mind for your abilities, so payment should be brief afterwards.” Penguin slides over the papers. “Sign these up and I’ll have the boys come by your place tomorrow to move your things. For your own security, you should not be present.”

Eddie’s nose twitches at the idea of letting others touch his things without him even there to supervise. Alas, there is logic to Oswald’s instructions. To move discreetly would involve not being followed, and being around the movers would incriminate him easily. “I won’t be seen. I have other things to attend to.” He didn’t, not really, but he would make do. There were always bigger and better things for him to be playing with, it would be easy to find one he could not perform out of his own workspace. “Make sure your men follow my instructions down to the punctuation.” He passes over the notes he had been writing out, keeping level eye contact with Penguin.

“Wouldn’t dream of ruffling your feathers.” The suited man smiles, showing off gold-capped teeth. Despite being named for what is essentially an ornithological fish, Penguin always looked more like a bird of prey; spying keen eyes down on his soon to be meal.

Riddler didn’t really take kind to intimidation or false geniality, though. “If I find anything even an inch out of order-“  
  
“It’ll be more than just their heads on the line. I know. I really do.” Penguin had never been one for the soft looks, but he presses a gloved hand down onto the paper and gently slides it out from under Riddler’s grip. “I’ll take care of it.” His voice is even and sure, and for a moment Eddie actually feels a might bit safe.

“…Fine.” He’s standing now; flipping back on his hat and snatching up his cane, which he immediately leans his weight on. “Send the order the usual way. No carrier pigeons.”

Penguin is smiling when he nods along, but it’s clear he gets it. They’ve been working together long enough for him to know how dangerous Riddler can get.

People move out of the way as the man in the outlandishly green suit struts to the door, a masking smirk on his lips. He turns for a moment to look at Penguin one final time through the crowd, tipping the brim of his hat courteously before exiting the lounge.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t get very far.

Perhaps his mistake was believing that Crane would leave him alone.

* * *

“Good morning, Edward.” Strangely enough, there is no dark, damp room. There’s no flickering lights or cold metal tables to lie on, and not even a trace of pain running through Eddie’s body as he blinks his eyes open to the morning sun.

Light has never made a man so dark before.

Jonathan Crane stands before him; no costume, just a ratty sweater over stained, collared shirt and slacks. Without the macabre mask he _should_ seem harmless enough. He’s not, though. _He’s smiling_ , which is an unnerving idea in itself, but right now is even more disturbing by the warm backlighting that shines around him like a halo. For any other man this may very well appear to be angelic. For Crane, though, this was pure sin.

“Nice of you to join me.” The actual malice that drips from his cordial expression is so thick it’s a wonder he’s not choking on it.

Remaining silent and sullen, Eddie focuses on himself and his own body. He can’t move his head much, but proprioception is one of the underappreciated senses simple humans possess. Even without much sight past his peripheral, he can _feel_ what position he’s been manhandled into. He knows he’s sitting in a chair, probably in something wooden judging by the hard service but not nearly the rigidity required for metal. He’s tied to the chair with course rope that he’s sure is ruining the thin fabric of his shirt. The ties are tight and efficient without cutting off circulation, even as he slowly flexes the muscles in his arms and legs to test the tension.

“Are you listening?” Crane is impatient, but if he’s going to up and whisk someone away without there consent, the least he can do is let that person get oriented. And possibly pay for the shirt he’s ruining to go to the cleaners.

Speaking of shirt, his suit jacket, hat, and tie have been removed, though he can still feel the weight of his wallet, cell phone, and knife in his pocket, meaning Crane didn’t seem to rob him.

Go figure. The man couldn’t even be properly villainous and steal while he runs a kidnapping job. Or smart enough to remove a weapon from his victim’s person.

Well at least if he does get out of here he won’t be without options.

“Edward.”

It was rather clever for Jonny to choose today. He must have known Edward was moving and wouldn’t be expected to be seen for a few days. So what if you haven’t seen Nygma in a week? He dropped off the map just like he wanted. How clever.

“ _Edward.”_ A hand is on his face, dry and rough with slim, long fingers, gripping his chin a bit too harshly. Cleanly trimmed fingernails dig just slightly into pale, thin skin and that’s certainly enough to break Edward out of his musings to at least recoil from the man’s touch.

“I knew you were stalking me.” Is the first thing Edward let’s himself say, finally looking into Crane’s piercing eyes. They’re brighter than normal today, despite his face dark and shadowed, only kissed by the sunlight that wreaths around him. Crane’s eyes always seem to glow in the lowlight, like the reflections of a cat’s eye, not a man’s.

Said man smiles a cold, toothy smile and drops his hold. “Considering the steps you took to put an end to my hobby, you are either bluffing or terribly masochistic. If it’s the latter, I’m sure I know a great many people who would take grand pleasure in feeding your sick whims.”

It’s annoying when someone calls a bluff.

“Are you on that list, professor?” Edward responds, smirking when the skeletal man bristles. The slight brush on his cheeks fades quickly though as he manages to maintain his composure.

“Oh no, dear Edward. I promise you none of the pain I will make you feel will be the slightest bit pleasurable. Or physical, for that matter.” He’s smiling again. Some people should never be allowed to smile, especially not like that.

“Is that what this is about?” Edward asks, trying his hardest not to let his trepidation show. He wouldn’t let Crane have the satisfaction. “The formula I took? Considering I didn’t even keep your notes, I think you’re fairly safe from me taking advantage of your work.” Not to mention the two kidnappings.

“That’s not what this is about at all.” Crane leaves Edward to move over to what appears to be a dining room table. Now that he thinks about it, Edward _is_ sitting in a dining room/kitchenette, facing a closed window that looks out over Gotham.

The sun is still rather low in the sky, indicating some time around midmorning, perhaps about 9 since it was a little early in the season. It’s cold, but Crane doesn’t seem to bothered by the temperature. He also doesn’t seem to be bothered by his captive sitting by an open window for all to see.

“Why does a man go through all the trouble of kidnapping someone and then just sit them in front of the window?” He asks allowed, turning his head to look at Crane.

“Isn’t that a fun riddle for you.” He returns from the table and pulls up a second chair, pulling as close as possible, until he’s straddling the chair, his long legs enough to place his Edward between him. He’s close. So. Damn. Close. “You like riddles, don’t you? One could almost call your little tic a compulsive obsession.”

“…” Did Crane kidnap Edward just to psychoanalyse him?

“Of course, the riddles are only a portion of your problems.” Crane examines Edward like a predator examining prey or a corvid watching a shiny new object; eyes narrowed and scrutinising, leaning his head in and tipping it from side to side as if the rotation of his subject will bring new answers.

“Why am I here, Crane?” Edward asks because he has better things to do than this. “We’re not even in your little laboratory.”

“Why are you here, precisely? Well, there was no reason to bring you to Arkham.”  Crane leans back, letting Edward some space as he pushes his thin, wire frame glasses up his long nose. “You’re not one of those weak subjects that cower at an old building and a grotesque mask. _You’re special._ ”

There it was again; that smooth, purring voice Crane liked to use when he praised Edward. Even knowing what he’s doing, the low rumble still sends shivers and coils around like a warm embrace, tightening and tightening its hold with every word.

“You are _exceptional_ , Edward. Your trial requires more _finesse_.” He’s leaning in closer again, forcing Edward to make eye contact with him, to feel the heat of Crane’s breath on his face. Breath which reeks of stale coffee and cheap spearmint toothpaste, which is a pleasant surprise considering most of the time Crane looks like he has the constant stench of death and viscera caked into his very bones.  
  
He’s warm, though. Always so warm…

For a moment, Eddie closes his eyes and let’s his blink last just a second longer than it should. He can feel the physical presence of the man in front of him. So close. So close… “What trial? You can’t use your fear gas on me here.” It takes a lot of willpower not to take the bait, to keep throwing logic out of his lips and stall the warm blush creeping up his spine, tame it to hidden and silent.

Crane tips his head in curiosity. “What makes you think that?”

There is no situation where Edward can resist demonstrating just how damn smart he is. “You’re not immune to your own creation. It’s impossible to be immune to that neurotoxin cocktail you’ve derived. Using even a touch of it requires a gasmask, and it lurks in the air. It would pollute your whole home. And any laymen can tell you you don’t shit where you eat.”

His captor’s face darkens. “…So you _did_ analyse my project?”

“Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I thoroughly look into the unknown substance someone injected into my body?” Edward Nygma is not an idiot, and the very suggestion is just a plain insult.

“Some people leave things well enough alone when they know they’re none of their business.” The cold anger is returning. The same fury that lead to a hand wrapped around Eddie’s throat oh so long ago in the alleyway by the museum.

“It became my business when you kidnapped me.” And now it’s most certainly his business, considering this is the second time he’s been kidnapped…And the third attempt. “If you want someone to leave you alone, you don’t hunt them down.”

Crane’s eyes narrow, his face twitching in annoyance and anger as he holds himself back. Edward can practically make out hands pretending they can wring necks into dust. He does manage to calm himself down, though, with a few choice breaths and some admirable self control. “You’re correct. I cannot use the gas in my home. But you should be aware of the intravenous toxin considering you _stole it_.”

“You mean the toxin that paralysed your test subject? Don’t tell me you actually found a way for that not to send someone into cardiac arrest?” Edward, though he would never admit it out loud, would be genuinely impressed if this was true. He tries not to show it.

“…” Crane’s face twitches again. “Why do you believe no one can be immune to the toxin?”

“Dodging the subject?” There’s a growl from the spindly man followed by a hand placing itself on Edward’s neck. Not pressing, but present. A warning. “Fine, have it your way. Obviously you can’t immune yourself to the toxin. With your design, it would take completely disconnecting your mind’s ability to transmit any neurotransmitters, not just adrenaline. Immunity that doesn’t kill you would require major brain surgery, let alone technology far beyond humanity’s current scope of possibility. And even if you _could_ do that, which you can’t, the disconnect would leave your mind in shatters, and cause a severe breakdown on the operation of your body. You’d essentially have to monitor your entire being manually for the rest of your life, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.”

Edward speaks quick and calculated, hardly taking a moment to breath as he marvels in the feeling of being smarter than Crane. Explaining just how clever he is, how much he’s entangled from just a few hours of research.

“…Hmph.” Crane smirks and drops his hold form Edward’s neck. “You really are a genius, Mr. Nygma.”

This time there’s no purring of smooth words, no dark gazes or teasing. It’s a statement. Candid. Such nonchalant truth that it leaves Edward’s cheeks red and eyes wide.  
  
This really wasn’t the time or situation to find himself attracted to such truthful praise. Or the person to explore it with.

In an attempt to school his features, he purses his lips and averts his eyes. “Yes, well, most simpletons are incapable of recognising what genius truly is.”

“Takes one to know one.” Crane is still smirking, ever so amused by his captive’s transparent response. He leans forward, placing his hands on Edward’s knees and letting himself slide closer and closer until the man is forced to stare into his eyes. They glint with interest and intrigue as they search the contours of Edward’s face. “Tell me, Nygma; why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?”  
  
In a moment the teasing is gone and Edward is back to glaring at Crane, mouth falling into an unhappy line.

This was a question Edward did not want to answer.

He keeps his mouth shut.

“Come now, Edward; don’t you want to prove to me your moral righteousness? How you’re so much better than me for not kicking me when I’m down.”

He does not take the bait.

Crane huffs in annoyance. “You know, I almost thought you were going to catch on to my observations. It’s odd to think how happy you are to be stalked by a wanted criminal. Not that you’re not on the list was well.”  His pushing has Edward seething inside, but he refuses to give the man his satisfaction. “It almost pushes on insanity, the thought that would just allow me to continue monitoring you without confrontation. Almost as if you enjoy all the attention, hm?”  
  
“Why do you even want to know? It doesn’t matter.” Edward finally snaps, immediately regretting it when Crane smirks.  
  
“We both know that you leaving me be in that alleyway means much more than nothing. Considering all I’ve done for you, you should have let me get caught, yes? But you didn’t. It’s a concerning matter.”  
  
“It meant nothing. It just wasn’t the time.”

Crane goes silent. He stares at Edward with those cold, calculating eyes, mouth shut tight.  
  
…  


Crane finally extracts himself from Edward’s personal space and slides his chair away, standing promptly.  
  
“Where are you doing?” Edward finds himself asking as the intimidatingly tall man turns to the window and pulls the curtains shut. With the sunlight gone, the horribly ironic glow is gone, showing Crane in his true form; dark and dangerous.  
  
“ _Goodnight, Mr. Nygma._ ”  
  
This amount of sedatives being pumped into Edward’s veins in such a short time cannot possibly be healthy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I grew up on 90s Batman movies (you know, the best Batman movies), so my go to thought for Penguin is Danny Devito. The plan is to stick to a more classic, gentleman of Gotham sort of Penguin, but if the Devito slips through I cannot stop myself and I'm not sorry at all. 
> 
> As well, should Mr. Freeze ever show up he'd immediately be based on Schwarzenegger, I'm so sorry. No helping it. 
> 
> Why then, you ask, is Riddler not more like the 90s Riddler? Well...I fuckin hate Jim Carrey, he's not stepping into my house.


	10. Bait and Switch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie needs to stop getting himself into these situations.

_“This just in: following last week’s attempted robbery of the Gotham Yacht Club, we are informed that the man calling himself The Mad Hatter is still at large.”_

* * *

Dr Crane tries not to dwell on the man he left tied and drugged up in an apartment building as he rides his motorcycle to work. He keeps his mind on teaching his graduate students today. On his meeting with Miss Quinzel this afternoon. On the wind in his hair and the colour of the sky. Anything  _but_  the unconscious Edward Nygma.

It’s difficult, though. There’s a distinct anticipation that lingers in the back of his brain no matter how hard he tries to push it back. Weeks of planning and he could finally move up a step in his research. Soon he wouldn’t even need to teach at this idiotic university. Soon everything would fall into place.

He doesn’t realise his giddiness is leaking out onto his facial features until his afternoon class when one of his undergraduates whispered something about his unnerving smile during his lecture. Crane immediately turned to look at the culprit of the comment, changing his smile to something much colder.

“Mr. Driscoll,” He drawls, pulling the name from the seating chart he keeps at the podium, “Do you have something to share with the class?”

The student freezes, many of the eyes in the room turning to pin onto him, others averting their gaze. “Ah…Um…No sir. No.”

“Is that so?” Crane bares his teeth in a mockery of a smile as he steps away from the chalkboard, approaching the terrified subject.  _“Then why are you so afraid?”_

The student swallows thickly, trying his damndest to melt into his seat. “I…I-I’m not s-sir. I’m not.” He does his best to keep his voice steady, and does a rather commendable job of it, even as he stutters.

“I don’t believe you.” Crane responds. “But don’t take my word for it. Stand up, Mr. Driscoll. Yes, that’s it, come up here.” He leads the student to the front of the class. “Do you mind if I touch you? Thank you. Now then, class, here is a perfect demonstration of what we were just discussing; fear is not purely psychological in nature. As we can attest to Mr Driscoll here, if has very physical effects. For instance,” He wraps his longer fingers around one of the rigid student’s wrists and raises it. “Lower body temperature in no essential areas; his hands are cold. Clammy. Why is this?”

There is silence.

“Come come, I just told you a minute ago.” Despite keeping a cool demeanour, Crane manages to stay a chilling level of intimidating. Still, with a harsh look one of the students is convinced to raise her hand. “Ms. Dean?”

“Would it be…The bloodflow was sent to…More important places?” The nervous undergrad says quietly.

“Correct. Notably to the heart, which leads us to the next point of evidence.” He drops the hand and instead places two fingers against the pulse point on the student’s neck. “Right here. Accelerated heart rate, which pairs with quickened breath.” Surely enough, the student is breathing mostly from his mouth to compensate for his lungs trying to kick into overdrive. “Though not visible, we’d also find an increase of sweating, drymouth, and light headedness. Can anyone name another sign Mr. Driscoll is demonstrating here?”

A student in the front row raises his hand. “Yes?”

“Pupil dilation?”

“Correct.” Crane widens his smiling and watches one of his students flinch. “Most of you are too far away to see it, but I can assure you our subject’s pupils are dilated. This is a bodily react to allow more focused sight in a moment of high emotion.” Crane pats his terrified student on the shoulder good naturedly before stepping back to his blackboard and started to add more notes. “Now the chemical that triggers this reaction is adrenaline. Adrenaline is not only released in times of danger, but also – sit down Mr. Driscoll you’re blocking the board – arousal, and various forms of stress, may they be exercise caused or an exertion of the mind. We’re going to be focusing more on the so called ‘fight or flight’ response – Mr. Driscoll I told you to sit down – which we’ll cover more in depth in next weeks lecture…”

Crane continues on, not bothering to focus on the student still standing stock still at the front of the room, locked in fear until some of his classmates snap him out of it and lead him back to his seat.

Despite himself, Crane is still smiling.  


* * *

_“This just in: The Mad Hatter was sighted in upper midtown Gotham. The GCPD warns citizens to avoid the area while they apprehend the criminal.”_

* * *

“How are your studies going?”

“Oh great! My dissertation is getting along great! My advisor isn’t too hot about it, but I swear I’m really onto somethin’”

“What’s your subject?”

“Method psychiatry!”

“That is…Not an existing study.”

“I know! I invented it! It’s going to be revolutionary, Dr. Crane. Imagine how much better doctors could be if they truly understood their patients!”

Jonathan Crane pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing the space where the eyelets of his glasses are leaving grooves with a soft sigh.

“And how are you…Going about this?”

“Well I’ve been researching in various lower level areas of Gotham, you know where Arkham got most of their patients during its peak.” Well, at least she started on the mark. Lower income communities were more likely to have subjects for her to study, and more people willing to give personal medical information for only a few dollars. Possibly a little unethical, but that was never really Crane’s concern. “I started just collecting data, and that took a few months, but then I moved on to the next phase.”

“Testing?”

“Yep. I started the simulation period.”

“Simulation of…Disorders?” He lost faith in her with every word.

“Well…Yes. Kind of. It’s difficult to force something like that on the mind. I thought if I just added too many chemicals it could mimic the effects of things like anxiety disorders, or depression. When I tried to get the school to help with it though, they said no. So I…Um…” Harley was, perhaps, having second thoughts about sharing this story with her former professor.

“You took a less legal approach, I’m assuming?” That would explain the strange behaviour Ms. Kyle had talked about.

She flushes red.

Sigh. Well, it’s not like it’s difficult to get hard drugs in Gotham. Hell, depending on where you go they practically give them out. And if you play with the right crowd, you’ll be easily subjected to them. For a dissertation, though, this was serious. “Ms. Quinzel…you do understand that all of your research for the university has to be legitimate, correct?”

“It is, though. I didn’t make any of it up, I swear.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Crane sighs at the confused look he gets in return. “In order for your work to be properly credited, the university needs evidence that you went about this their way. That’s why you have a faculty advisor; to track your progress and make sure you’re not plagiarising or unethically gathering your resources.” Still a confused look. “They will consider buying drugs off the streets unethical.”

Harley is silent for a long while, averting her gaze. “…Oh.”

What had he gotten himself into? “Child, it is possible to salvage your work. You just need the correct guidance.” After all, not all her ideas were unwarranted or particularly damaging. It’d be hypocritical for him to judge her on her methods, and the research itself was…Well, not exactly sound or helpful but she could still be useful. She could still do well.

Perhaps he was being sentimental or some other sort of humane feeling he typically ignored.

“…Give me the contact information for your advisor. I’ll see what I can do to assist you, Child.”

That bright smile is back on her face. “You really mean it, doctor? Oh thank you!”

This probably wasn’t worth all the effort. He’d probably regret it very soon.

Right now, he really did have better things to worry about, though.

* * *

_“Commissioner Gordon, how do you respond to the allegations that the GCPD are not doing enough to stop the rampant crime in Gotham?”_

_“The GCPD is devoted to catching the criminals that infect our streets and giving them the justice they deserve. After this successful operation against the Mad Hatter we are confident that with Batman’s assistance we can truly put a stop to the most dangerous of Gotham’s criminals.”_

_“And what about the claims that the GCPD is not doing enough to track down some of the more prominent criminals? The Scarecrow has been at large for more than a month now without a single word from you or the rest of the police department on his capture. Are you just going to let dangerous men like him take a backseat priority?”_

_“We’re well aware of the background criminal activity of Gotham. The Scarecrow serial kidnappings are well underway in investigation, though we cannot reveal any more information at this time. We continue to advise citizens to travel in groups, especially at night, and to call us with any sign of the maniac.”_

_“Thank you, commissioner, we’re now ho—”_ Jonathan does not hear the rest of the report as he turns away from the television positioned in the staff room of the university. His hand clenches knuckle white on his bag as he swiftly exits the building. Good thing he already had a captive on hand; it was time to teach Gotham a lesson.  

* * *

  
_“With what shall I cut it, dear Liza? Dear Liza? With what shall I cut it, dear Liza? With what?”_

Edward wakes, groggy and confused, to a song.

_“With a hatchet dear Henry. Dear Henry. Dear Henry. With a hatchet dear Henry. Dear Henry; an axe.”_

The voice singing it is a deep tenor, strained and slightly off-key, but not overall unpleasant.

_“The hatchet is not sharpened, dear Liza. Dear Liza. The hatchet is not sharpened, dear Liza, it’s dull.”_

The song sounds like a children’s song but is sung in a dirge; slow and echoing and following along with the distinct sound of metal scrapping along stone. Edward blinks open his eyes to find himself no longer staring out a city window, but at a ceiling.

_“So sharpen it, dear Henry. Dear Henry. Dear Henry. So sharpen it, dear Henry. Dear Henry, sharpen it.”_

The scrapping noise repeats, long and high. It’s not a familiar noise, to be certain. If Edward were to describe it he would compare it to a knife being drawn out of a block. The slow  _shink_  of the blade sliding along its holding, but louder and more pronounced.

_“With what shall I sharpen it, dear Liza? Dear Liza? With what shall I sharpen it, dear Liza? With what?”_

Head still heavy and muscles tired, Edward hardly feels like he could move. It takes great strength to try and sit up, but he does, gritting his teeth through the distinct soreness in his muscles. Through dizziness and the after-effects of whatever he was injected with, Edward’s sight is muddled and blurred, but he makes out the end of a couch that he is apparently lying on, followed by a portion of the room he’s in, mainly a hallway that leads to, judging by the shoes laid out next to it, a front door.

 _“With a whetstone, dear Henry. Dear Henry. Dear Henry. With a—”_ The song and sharpening abruptly stop.  _“You’re awake.”_

Edward finds most of his body inoperable as he tries to turn towards the voice, ultimately falling back on the couch as he exerts too much energy. “Crane, what are you—”

 _“Calm down, Edward.”_  There’s the pressure of hands pressing against Edward’s shoulders, and then a horrific masked face comes into view over the arm of the couch he is laying on. Seems the good Doctor Crane is suited up for a night of terrorising Gotham.  _“Your body, though housing quite the remarkable mind, is very weak. Were you aware of that?”_ In this upside down position, Edward’s gaze is levelled with Scarecrow’s eyes, which shine through the tinted lenses of his mask with mirth and humour.

“It’s not as if you’re much stronger than me.” Edward retorts, though his voice comes out slurred and much lower in volume than he expects.

Scarecrow tilts his head curiously, like a demonic kitten trying to figure out the world around it.  _“Do we want to test that, Mr. Nygma?”_

Not really. Edward huffs and let’s his eyes slide closed. “Why am I still here?” He asks, deciding not to exert too much energy on conversing with a madman.

 _“Did you know that you’re allergic to zolpidem?”_ Is Scarecrow’s response, ignoring Edward’s question completely.

“Please tell me you did not administer Ambien to me intravenously.” Every word starts feeling a little less heavy as he slowly comes to his sense, though the idea wakes him up a good amount on its own.

 _“Of course not. That was the sodium thiopental; to put you to sleep. The zolpidem was to make sure you_ stayed _asleep.”_ There’s a smile in his breathy, ragged voice, as if he’s finding it particularly entertaining to recount his sedative experiments.  _“You reacted quite poorly to it. I was expecting you awake much sooner than now, but I suppose the anaphylactic shock took more out of you than intended.”_

That  _is_ what happens when you administer drugs without asking first. Edward sighs. “Yes, Crane, I am aware of my Ambien allergy.” That would explain how dizzy he felt. Granted, a proper doctor would have asked for known allergies before starting an examination, but Crane was in no way a typical doctor, or even proper for that matter. Best not to voice that, though. It wouldn’t quicken his escape. “Now why am I still here?”

 _“You need to be in good health.”_ Why was he so happy? The giddiness in Scarecrow’s voice was terribly unsettling, but the fog in Edward’s head was making it hard to think.

“Why?” He asks, knowing he will not get an answer.

A hand reaches down and smooths out Edward’s hair in a way most would consider placating or affectionate.  _“Go back to sleep, Eddie.”_

“I’d rather not.” Edward murmurs, but he can already feel his eyes sliding shut. When was the last time someone pet his hair like this? Must have been years. Back when…When…

 _“Do not fret, Little Prince. I will not harm your sleep.”_ Despite how much Edward does not want to sleep, the fingers carding through his hair and the warm purrs at his ear is unwillingly comforting, and with the drugs still flushing out of his system he cannot stop himself from falling back to sleep.

He dreams of something vast, and distant.

* * *

Edward is beginning to question if his lifestyle is unhealthy. After all, it is one thing to wake up occasionally and find yourself tied to a chair. In some cases, it is not only warranted, but welcome. This was not one of those cases. No, this was happening far too much for his liking. What was he doing wrong that put him in such a position? How could a sour conversation turn to this? Or even a simple errand? It was unfair, truly.

“Is this really necessary?” He says—Well, tries to say. Edward finds his mouth gagged and tied, stopping his words past a saliva filled mumble. Ugh. Really? He is at the very least not blindfolded, which allows him to survey the bare room he has been placed in.

Small and made of concrete walls, with pipes adorning the walls and ceilings. Perhaps a boiler room or a maintenance facility. He sees no door, nor any windows. Only a dusty floor and a video camera set on a tripod. The tiny light on it is blinking.

 _“Good morning commissioner and welcome to today’s demonstration.”_ A familiar voice croons from behind Edward. He doesn’t bother to look scared.  _“We are here today with my new test subject. Say hello.”_

Edward has no desire to show any sort of reaction to the madman stationed at his back. Yet, when he sees a scythe slide into view, skating along the delicate skin of his neck, he suddenly has enough motivation to eye it nervously, an unconscious cry of distaste slipping past his lips into a muffled cry of worry from underneath the gag. He can practically feel the giddy energy rolling off Scarecrow even without seeing the man in question.

 _“He’s been oh so kind to volunteer for today’s experiment.”_  Something is rolling on small, squeaking wheels behind him and then the scythe is gone, replaced with a gloved hand reaching to pull up the sleeve of Edward’s sweater—When had Scarecrow changed Edward into this ratty garb???—And slide a needle into his inner wrist.  _“In this bag here we have the newest version of my experiment. Carefully cultivated from my many welcoming volunteers. Today this gentleman will show us if this version really does send people into cardiac arrest in high dosages, as he so kindly claimed during his interview.”_

Edward can feel himself begin to sweat more readily, as his body sends itself into fight or flight at the slowest of paces. Already his breath is shallower and his chest is thrumming with palpitations. Was this really the same formula that had paralyzed a man? If it was he was screwed, but…Well, it seemed unlikely. It’d been months since them. Had Crane truly not solved the cardiac arrest issue yet?

 _“I’ll only be running vital tests every half hour. If he falls into a deadly state between those times, well…Hehehe that’s still data, right?”_ The manic laughter of the Scarecrow is something Edward has no desire to ever hear again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The general consensus is that the children's song "there's a hole in the bucket" is by no means a creepy song. Except, apparently, when I sing it.


	11. A Mouse in a Boiling Pot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda pushed my boundaries a little bit on writing fear in this chapter, so to those easily squeamish; you've now been warned and can't hold me accountable.

Cold seeps through Edward’s veins. Unlike the last time he had found himself unlucky enough to be one of Dr. Crane’s subject, he was conscious at this iteration of the toxin’s initial injection.

Where previously he found himself in a sudden state of panic, this experience is slow. It creeps up on him, his heart rate elevating tic by tic, gradual and languid. The adrenaline mixture takes a long time to kick in, something the good doctor most likely found unhelpful, but it is not ineffective. In fact, it’s far too tempting to just let himself fall into the synthetic anxiety being forced upon him. The fear is almost like an old friend he never wanted to see ever again.

_“Do you see him yet?”_ The Scarecrow whispers in Edward’s ear.

“Fear cannot bring back the dead.” Edward mutters, though his hands curl around the arms of his chair of captivity, holding on knuckle white.

_“We’d all like to think that, wouldn’t we?”_ Scarecrow muses. There’s shuffling along the concrete floor as the deranged doctor walks away from Edward. He can just barely make out Scarecrow’s figure from the corner of his eye. He’d fiddling with something, perhaps some sort of glass as indicated by the clinks and clanks that follow.

As far as he knows, the toxin is not supposed to be delivered in slow trials, but all at once. Perhaps this was exactly what Scarecrow was testing; if too quick an injection is what was causing cardiac arrest, perhaps a different approach would bring about better results. It makes sense, though the effect is taking forever, and it’s the creeping that really brings out the torture. Today he is not experiencing sudden, uncontrollable terror. This is a steady build, piling on top of one wave of fear after the next. The effect is almost so subtle that there’s no way to follow when it will get worse.

There’s a special type of torture in this. Immediately Edward thinks of the fable of the frog in a pot of water. The metaphor highlights that the frog cannot tell it is in danger if the water is brought to a boil gradually. It certainly did not hold biologically, but for symbolism the idea was often compared to abusive relationships, loving or otherwise.

This was quite literal, though. With every new dosage he was gradually feeling the effects, although they were subtle. Perhaps a frog was a bad metaphor, for he still knew he was in danger. It was lingchi; death by a thousand cuts. One cut is fine and manageable, but you add more and more and eventually you find yourself in a slow, torturous death.

There is no pain with the toxin, though. Perhaps that is what made it so terrible; the feeling that one will die, with no physical rational to back it up. “Your wish to duplicate an anxiety attack is admirable.” Edward mutters sardonically.

_“It’s more than that.”_ Scarecrow responds from somewhere beyond Edward’s reach.  _“So much more.”_

“You’re delusional.”

_“That won’t be an issue once my work is complete.”_ Edward can almost see the chilling smiling Crane must have beneath his horrific mask. The conviction in his words is scary enough, though. Truly, Scarecrow believes he can destroy delusions.  _“Speaking of, do you see him yet?”_

He doesn’t. Edward knows exactly what his captor keeps talking about; the man who he’d seen chase him all those months ago in the basement of Arkham Asylum. A man he knew to be long dead. After all, he  _had_  killed him himself; he’d felt the life drain from his father’s body, watched as the light left his eyes. The man was deader than dead.

Rationality does not cooperate with fear, though. There is no way for Edward’s sperm donor to appear before him, but try explaining that to his brain, which is currently being pumped full of adrenaline by a slow drip.

_“Come now, boy, listen to me.”_ It’s the words of the Scarecrow, but the rough timber of a corpse. “Boy!”

Edward does not want to flinch, but he no longer has control of his actions. The fear is autonomic; fight or flight kicks in and no matter how much he regrets it, he is afraid. His father had burrowed a hole into his head and settled there like a parasite. Even with the cause gone, the symptoms still remain.

“You’re dead.” He mutters, forcing his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to find himself subjected to the hallucinations he know will follow.

“Don’t you back talk me, boy!” The corpse shouts. Thick and angry veins fill the man’s skin, pulsing along muscle and fat. Edward can smell the beer stinking on the hot breath being puffed in his face like a bull rearing to fight. The rational portion of his mind wants to marvel at how the toxin could cause olfactory delusions, but that part is slipping away faster than is strictly healthy. “Don’t you ignore me, you cheating little shit!” A large, meaty hand reaches for Edward’s throat. Despite himself, he flinches and curls away, fights against his bonds as if he can kick himself back, far far away from the pain that is already blossoming in his throat.

He screams.

* * *

 

Despite what he tells the police, Scarecrow is keeping a constant track of Edward’s vitals. Whether or not he does anything as the man falls into screaming pains of agony remains for the effect, but he does know when risks are coming. He’s not an idiot; he knows Edward is a more useful subject alive than dead.

It’s interesting to watch the effects of his toxin on someone who knows it intimately. Certainly, he himself had spent long hours crouching in the twilight with a needle in his fist, trying his damndest to remain conscious whilst he attempts to record the toxin’s work on his own psyche, but that could only work as preliminary testing. Obviously, the bias was too large for any feasible results.

Edwards knows, though. He’s read the notes of Jonathan Crane, understood them even. Without the biased perspective, he’s a good as a stand in as any for Scarecrow himself. It’s fascinating, beautiful even, to watch as the man struggles against the toxin’s effects. He’s evidently trying to fight delusion with rationality, though with the slowly increasing dosage it shouldn’t last long.

He has yet to go into cardiac arrest.

Sometimes Scarecrow regrets that his face cannot be seen under his gasmask, for surely if the GCPD could see his smile right now they would be properly terrified.

* * *

 

The body on the screen is thrashing, clawing, convulsing. They can see hear the man as he screams in agony and terror, watching as his sweating, breaking body tries to fight the effects of the madman’s damned concoction.

Jim Gordon glares at the footage. Oh how he wishes they could light the bat signal, but it’s one in the afternoon, the signal would be useless, and they’ve never even seen the Bat during the day. No, this would have to be on their own, which is perhaps why this time was chosen in the first place.

Damn the villains that got clever.

“How are we doing on that location?” Commissioner Gordon asks, looking over at one of his officers.

“It’s not in the warehouse district. We’re pinning the signal somewhere midtown, but it’s rough.”

“There shouldn’t be too many locations suitable there. Start runni-“

“ _First half hour is down.”_ The voice of the Scarecrow cuts into the chaos of the station. Gordon holds up a hand and focuses his gaze on the screen. “ _Let’s check on our subject.”_ The spindly man shuffles into view, dressed now in a ratty facsimile of a labcoat, holding up a clipboard that has certainly seen better days. He adjusts the goggles of his mask as if pretending to fix his glasses, and looks over the clipboard.  _“Hmm…High heart rate, palpitations, stress…No, sir, you are not doing alright. And I am sorry to say that it seems your lungs are struggling something fierce.”_ The victim’s chest heaves, head thrown back and mouth gaping to suck in air.  _“Fortunately for us, the GCPD do not seem too worried about you, so we may play a bit longer before you asphyxiate.”_

Scarecrow shuffles out of view and there’s a distinct sound of metal scraping against something hard, perhaps stone or concrete.  _“Now tell me, how does this make you feel?”_  He lifts up a scythe, and the victim screams.

* * *

 

It’s difficult to discern what is really going on. For a moment his dear old dead dad is choking him, and Edward can feel the man’s fat fingers dig into his neck, and crush his windpipe. The next moment, he is somewhere else entirely. And then again, and again. The scene switches too fast to process.

A room with rotting walls and peel paper. It smells like the shit and decay, and blood stains the floors.

A swarm of insects; spiders and cockroaches and beetles and flies all crowd out of the walls and find their way up Edward’s legs, covering him with the skittering, disgusting feeling of becoming the decaying thing.

Then the insects are bats and their flying around him in a hurricane of teeth and leathery wings. Yellow eyes shine from the darkness. So bright-

Fire. Fire everywhere and it’s burning and burning. He can feel the heat on his skin.

Skin flaying down to the muscle and bone, his body unravelling.

A man dressed as a scarecrow, dragging a bloody axe.  _“Right between the eyes.”_  A gloved hand raises and taps the man’s forehead.  _“One. Two. Three.”_

A crowd of people. Thousands, perhaps, all standing around him in hoards, hands reaching for him and they are all focused on him, on this screaming man in a chair. He can feel every individual gaze and the overstimulation is maddening.

Then he locks eyes with a singular woman in the audience and all of sudden she is all that is there, staring at him with a solemn look on her face. She turns away. He tries to reach out for her but-

Thick vines ensnare around his wrists and legs, shackling him to the ground even as he grapples and scrapes, feeling the wet earth beneath his fingernails. Distant laughter, like a woman cackling.

_“How does this make you feel?”_ The scarecrow-dressed figure is back, axe raised. Then it pulls off its mask and there is Selina, grinning madly over him. She swings the axe.  _“What do you see?”_

He feels the axe hit his neck, but it is not the sharp slide of the blade, but the returning feeling of the bruising fingers he knows all to well.

_“TELL ME WHAT YOU SEE!!!”_

The last thing he remembers is the taste of blood.

* * *

 

It all ends when the Scarecrow’s victim goes practically catatonic. The GCPD watches as the man in the chair reaches a point of agony where he stops being responsive at all. They watch as Scarecrow grabs the man by the shoulders, shouting for him to say what he saw. His desperation knocks over the camera and suddenly Gordon can see a flash of a window. The camera breaks, but it’s enough.

They find the location and dispatch a set of officers to the scene, Gordon personally among them. Of course, they find the victim alone, still chained to the chair, though all signs of Scarecrow and toxin are gone.

His mouth is bleeding.

* * *

It’s more than a little disorienting to go from living the effects of a fear induced, delusional nightmare to waking up in a hospital, staring at a white ceiling and listening to the distant beep of a heart monitor.

The first ten minutes after waking up is in silence while he finds his body again. It’s almost like his proprioception had walked away during his time in that torture chair, for he could not seem to understand where he was in space. Slowly the soreness comes, then the aches and pains. His mouth is dry and his throat feels raw from screaming himself into oblivion. There’s a distant taste of blood in his mouth from where he probably bit his tongue, and he can still feel the weight of the restraints on his wrists and ankles. He’s tired. Oh so very tired.

Another ten minutes pass before a nurse finds him awake and gets a doctor. They catch him up on what happened, on how the GCPD found him and how he’s mostly fine. After the hour of slow adrenaline drip, though, it’s hard to keep himself emotionally in check enough to care about his own injuries. He listens with a blank face as they give him more drugs and promise him to be out soon.

Time passes like a blur of colour and light and sound until-

“Eddie?” Selina bursts into the room, still wearing a cocktail dress and, oddly enough, a man’s coat. Most likely just returning from a date, judging by her smoky eye and her nicer purse clutched in her hands. Nice of her to take time out of her busy schedule to stop in and visit him. “Oh thank fuck you’re okay! I was so worried.”

“What are you doing here?” Edward mutters through the still constant haze of drugs, glaring at the woman who betrayed him.

Selina frowns, waving off the question. “I’m still listed as your emergency contact, but that doesn’t matter; what happened? Was it…Was it  _him_?” For her credit, Selina looks genuinely worried, knitted brows running her carefully crafted look of elegance and confidence.

“What do you care, Selina? You’re the one who sold me out in the first place.” Still drugged and groggy, there’s no false courtesy that can be mustered to cover Edward’s sardonic tone.

“Eddie…” Selina looks genuinely mournful as she approaches the bed, heels clicking softly on the linoleum floor. “I swear, I didn’t mean to-“

“I don’t want to hear your excuses, Selina! You put me in this bed and let me lie in it! Call someone else if you’re really worried; Ozzie or that two-faced bastard, or fucking hell even Pam would be more preferable than you! None of them have ever tossed me to the sharks!” That’s a lie, but he’d already forgiven Oswald for literally throwing him in front of Warren White, and it’s not like that turned out too bad. “I don’t need your concern,  _Ms. Kyle_.”

Selina reels. “Eddie-“

“I don’t want to hear it!” Edward growls, glaring at his former friend. The push on his injured voice hurts, but the thought of this woman caring about him is more painful than any sore throat. “I don’t need your false apologies! I don’t want to hear you patronise me and belittle me with your pity! You don’t deserve to care! You. Put. Me. Here.”

Selina stares back in silence. They lock gazes, angry and ashamed. He can still see her face in the back of his mind, though. The grin. The axe.

A knock resounds at the door before it slowly slides open. “Selina, is he okay? I heard shouting- Oh hello there.” A sharply dressed man in full suit, par the jacket, peaks his head into the room, seemingly surprised to find Edward awake. The man glances at Selina. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt-“

“It’s fine, Mr. Wayne.” Edward cuts of the man before he can apologise more, flashing a quick and charming smile. “Ms. Kyle and I were just having a disagreement.”

Of course Bruce Wayne is not surprised that a stranger recognises him. He smiles politely and steps fully into the room. “I wasn’t trying to intrude on your private conversation, though I suppose if you’re well enough to argue you’re not in too critical a state, hm?” He says with polite humour. His smile is kindly and practiced. It’s sincere, surely, but is very obviously the smile of a man who controls his emotions like he’s always on camera.

“Certainly. The doctors assure me that whatever that lunatic stabbed into my bloodstream has been flushed out and left no permanent damage.” Edward also smiles politely, though his face twitches into a glare when he hears Selina sigh in relief.

“Lunatic?” Wayne asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Scarecrow.” Edward answers in one word, though he keeps his gaze on Selina. “Kidnapped me and pumped me full of some sort of poison. Could have killed me, or worse.” His lips press together into a thin, tight line. “Not that it is really any concern to anyone what state I’m left in.”

The implication is clear.

Selina purses her lips, eyes just a tad glossy, before turning on heel and leaving the room with a soft “I’ll be waiting outside” to her companion. Bruce Wayne watches her leave with another concerned expression, lingering in the room when he should really follow after her.

He frowns and looks at Edward. “She was worried sick when she got the call from the police. Thought perhaps you were dead.” His gaze is judgemental.

“It’s a fair assumption.” Is the only response he gets. Edward does not have the energy to care that this stranger thinks he should accept Selina’s guilt.

Wayne stares at Edward, gaze pushed to neutral as if he’s trying to size up the situation. Analyse. Think. “I’m sorry,” He suddenly starts, and Edward is worried he’s going to be pitied by this stranger, “But I never got your name.” Oh thank god.

“Edward. Edward Nygma. Do pardon me for not standing.” He smiles wryly, but holds out his hand to the richest man in Gotham. Bruce Wayne steps forward and shakes it. “No introductions from you required, of course.”

“I suppose not. What do you do, Mr. Nygma?”

“I’m a consultant.” Edward answers truthfully. “Technical, mostly. Security. But I’ve done a few financial cases. I work privately, case to case.”

“Was that what he wanted you for? The Scarecrow?”

Wayne’s awfully chatty for a little rich boy, but Edward is a bit too drugged to dwell on it.  Instead he just shrugs. “Something like that.”

“Did he get what he wanted?”

“…Hard to tell…But I don’t think so.” Either way, he would have to pay for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me reading half of The War of Jokes and Riddles and like three conversations with my dad about how to characterize Jim Gordon before I was able to figure out this chapter, and mostly I just cut down the GCPD stuff. Life is regret.

**Author's Note:**

> YO what up if you want to see character designs for this fic stop by this tumblr post ok bye iloveyou no wait that was too soon im sorry our relationship is not at that point  
> http://macabredanse.tumblr.com/post/177750435784/mouse-and-meal-designs  
> If you wanna talk about all the pages of notes I have on the fuckin story...Stop by tumblr as well, or drop a sick comment here, aight? I literally had to make a flowchart to write this, I am not messing around.
> 
> Also hello do you like fanart? Do you wanna see fanart someone drew for this fic? STEP RIGHT UP MY DUDE AND BEHOLD THE WORK OF ART http://picas-art.tumblr.com/post/181648129003/tell-me-nygma-why-didnt-you-kill-me-when-you


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